


Where We Are, Where We Started

by angelicaschuyler



Series: Where We Are, Where We Started [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference (About 10-12 years), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Depression, Falling In Love, Family, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masturbation, Past Character Death, Rimming, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Snowballing, Widowed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:53:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 99,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6758629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicaschuyler/pseuds/angelicaschuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex wasn’t prepared for the unimaginable – but then again, no one ever is. In the blink of an eye, he becomes a single father of two. He’s just picking up the pieces when George Washington walks into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There's a visual component to this story through [Pinterest.](https://www.pinterest.com/WWA_WWS/prologue/) It's mostly for my own use, but I wanted to share it anyway. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [malapertqueen](http://malapertqueen.tumblr.com/) for throwing me ideas, reading my outline and overall being fantastic.
> 
> And to [Liz ](http://jonahryan.tumblr.com/)for telling me Alex and Eliza needed to live in Park Slope instead of Astoria. 

It begins like any other Tuesday. Her side of the bed is still warm when Alex wakes up.

He remembers the little things he took for granted every other morning over their 20 years of marriage. The scent of her pillows – a mix of coconut oil shampoo, a favorite of hers since their college years, and the vanilla-rose perfume he gave her for Valentine’s Day. The ironing board – still set up in the middle of the bedroom, Alex’s freshly pressed outfit hanging on the back of the door. Two tubes of lipstick sitting on the bathroom sink – one a pinky nude and the other a deep mauve.

He never finds out which one she chose.

“You just missed mom, she took Will to school early,” Angie greets him with a mouthful of scrambled eggs, her math homework spread out on the table in front of her. She’s juggling her fork in one hand and a pencil in the other. “And, she wanted me to remind you you’re having lunch with her and Philip today. At the Pret by your office.”

“I remember.” Alex rolls his eyes, playful, and Angie laughs. He pours himself a to-go mug of coffee and joins her at the table. “You know she added it to my Google calendar.”

“That sounds like mom,” Angie grins, arching an eyebrow at the coffee cupped in Alex’s hands. “Dad. Breakfast…”

Alex grimaces. “If you don’t tell mom, I won’t tell her you’re doing your algebra at the breakfast table.”

Angie looks down at her homework, considers the offer, and nods. “OK. Deal.”

“Good girl,” Alex says, standing up and kissing the top of her head. He checks his watch and clucks his tongue. “OK, I’ve gotta run.”

“Tell Philip he can’t ignore me just because he’s in college now,” Angie says, twisting around in her chair as Alex pulls on his coat and backpack. “He doesn’t have to spend every weekend on campus.”

Alex laughs. “You’ll understand when you’re in college. Bye, Angel.”

It begins like any other Tuesday morning. Listening to Burr’s painful phone interviews from the other side of his nook, leaning back in his chair and making stabbing motions at his cubicle wall while Angelica suppresses laughter on her side of the shared office. He has his one-on-one meetings with his interns. He exchanges texts with Philip, continuing his never-ending list of bar recommendations near Columbia’s campus. (That conversation takes place outside of the group text with Eliza – he’s only 19, after all.)

He’s in the break room, making a fresh pot of coffee, when Burr leans in and drums his fingers along the doorframe.

“Hey, Alexander – ” Alex cringes. It’s the name he uses for his byline, sure, but he really only likes to hear Eliza say it out loud. “You should come out to the bullpen. They’ve got CNN on, something’s going down.”

Alex abandons the coffee maker and follows Burr out to the main floor. Everyone is silent aside from two or three reporters already on the phone, trying to piece together the story –

 _"We’re hearing about a derailment in Columbus Circle,”_ the anchor’s voice carries through the newsroom. She’s nervously shuffling a stack of notes on her desk, not quite looking at the camera. _“No word yet on injuries or fatalities, but it looks like it was a southbound 1 train – ”_

“We need to get this story online as soon as possible,” Burr mutters, eyes still fixed on the screen. But Alex isn’t listening. He catches Angelica by the elbow when she steps up next to him, frowning at the TV.

“Can you try Eliza while I try Philip?” he asks, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “We’re meeting for lunch – they’d be taking the 1 from campus.”

Angelica's face drops. He feels her tense under his own tightening grip.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, moving his hand from her elbow to the top of her arm and squeezing. And he is sure. Shit happens all the time – there are millions of people in New York City. Fuck, it’s entirely possible Eliza and Philip jumped in a cab. “We just need to call them.”

Angelica sets her jaw and nods, pulling out her iPhone, manicured nails clicking against the screen. The volume in the newsroom is starting to rise, so she plugs her other ear with a finger. Alex calls Philip.

“Nothing,” Angelica says, shaking her head and typing out a text. Her hands are trembling.

Philip’s phone rings until it goes to voicemail. Alex swallows.

“They could be underground,” he says. They could be on any one of the subway platforms. It’s unlikely they’re anywhere _near_ Columbus Circle. “They’re not going to be going anywhere anytime soon. They’ll call.”

“They’ll call,” Angelica repeats, looking back up at the television. They’re already showing footage of firefighters, weighed down by their gear, jogging down a flight of station steps. The anchor’s disembodied voice repeats the same information over and over again. … _a southbound 1 train, no word on injuries, but we are in touch with our sources at the MTA…_

Alex looks down at his phone. The wallpaper photo, one of Eliza in her favorite Tiffany-blue wrap dress with Philip in his cap and gown, curls sticking out every which way, smiles back at him. No one calls.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing no one tells you about grief or its five stages is that there’s no rhyme or reason to it, no formula.

_Nine Months Later_

“Give yourself time.”

“They’re in a better place now.”

“You have to be strong – for the kids.”

“She wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Alex almost wishes he’d written down every word of the shitty, unsolicited advice he’s received over the last nine months – if only to laugh about it with Angelica later, in some alternate timeline where they both feel whole again.

The thing no one tells you about grief or its five stages is that there’s no rhyme or reason to it, no formula. Sometimes Alex feels everything at once. There are the days he can barely look at Angie and William – when all he sees are Eliza’s eyes or Philip’s smile. Days when he takes a second shower at night, just so the kids don’t have to see him cry.

And there are days he feels strong – almost manic. He’ll clean the house, throw out all the rotting food, blow money on expensive dinners for the kids. There are days they laugh and feel like a family again. But it never seems to last once the sun sets and Alex is back in his empty bedroom, Eliza’s scent – her shampoo and perfume –fading with her memory.

Angelica is better than him. She’s the one who keeps a stiff upper lip. She’s the one who helps the kids make memory boxes and photo albums, the one who, early on, during the hardest weeks of all their lives, lies in bed with Angie and talks through the night.

She’s the one who takes the kids to church. Alex tried. He lasted two Sundays, never went back after laughing in the face of a total stranger, some well-meaning old woman who grabbed his arm and told him, “God always has a plan.”

Nine months seem to pass in the blink of an eye. The world moves on, but he doesn’t. It’s enough time to make the few people in his life start to lose their patience with him. No one has outright told him to “move on” (he’s waiting for that one), but he can see it in their eyes when he comes to work late, unwashed hair tied back in a greasy knot. His brain screams it on the days he comes home at 6 p.m., turns off all the lights, and crawls into bed. _Get up, get up, aren’t you better yet?_

Alex doesn’t look at anyone when he walks into the newsroom. It takes a lot of effort to ignore a bullpen full of nosy journalists, but he manages. He walks straight into his shared office and is welcomed by the sound of Burr clicking away loudly at his laptop on the other side of the nook. The typing stops when he closes the door behind him and falls heavily into his seat. There’s a pause, and then the sound of rolling wheels and the squeak of a chair. Alex looks up at the ceiling and curses under his breath.

“Alexander,” Burr’s voice is soft when he steps around their cubicle wall. Nowadays, he talks to Alex like he’ll crack in an instant. “You’re 45 minutes late.”

Alex doesn’t look at him. Just unzips his laptop bag and brushes a few papers away from the center of his desk so he can set up his MacBook.

“I took Will to school this morning. Like I always do,” Alex says, punching his laptop’s power button with more force than necessary. “And then I had to update some paperwork with his teacher. What do you want?”

Alex technically sets his own hours – their boss is hands-off, he doesn’t really bat an eye as long as the work is done. Sure, most of the staff arrives around 9 a.m., but there’s no reason for Burr, of all people, to confront him about this.

Burr sits in the chair next to Alex’s desk and Alex tenses. His eyes flicker over to Burr. If this is a fucking intervention –

“I’m just trying to look out for you, man,” Burr says, and Alex has to fight the desire to roll his eyes. “There’s just talk around the office – you come in late and leave early and, look, people are sympathetic. They are. But –”

“It’s October, I know,” Alex finishes, suddenly preoccupied with reorganizing his pen cup. “I should have a system figured out, just bounce the fuck right back from losing my wife of twenty years and my teenage son.”

Burr shifts awkwardly and starts picking at an imaginary spot on the thigh of his pants. He’s not looking at Alex now. “I just want you to know that people are talking.”

“Great, thanks Aaron,” Alex snaps, turning back to his computer and pulling up his email. _56 unread._ “Are we done?”

Burr sits a while longer. Alex feels him staring. Wordlessly, he climbs back to his feet and circles around to his side of the cubicle. The loud typing resumes a few seconds later.

Alex closes his eyes for a minute, collecting himself. He doesn’t want to waste time on anger anymore. Frankly, Burr isn’t really worth it. Alex doesn’t _dislike_ him – not as much as Angelica does – but he’s never allowed himself to get that close to him, either. Alex has always kept a tight circle of friends. Burr just isn’t a part of it.

He goes through and deletes most of his emails – press releases he doesn’t care about, spam, complaints about articles he doesn’t have the energy to respond to – until he’s left with twelve in the inbox. He starts at the top. A name he vaguely recognizes with the subject line “ _Interview opportunity.”_

_Mr. Hamilton,_

_I wanted to touch base with you in regards to a piece I’m working on for the_ New Yorker. _In light of the approaching one year anniversary of the Columbus Circle tragedy, we’d like to feature you and your family in an upcoming article. We’re focusing not only on the 16 victims and their families, but the MTA’s role in -_

Alex can’t help but laugh as he deletes the email. Then, he goes into his trash folder and deletes it from there, too. Yeah, the world moves on - until it doesn’t. Until it wants to parade him and his kids around like show ponies. And for what? So some prick can be a Pulitzer Prize runner-up?

His eyes fall on the photo pinned to his cubicle wall. It’s the one he’s always kept at his desk - the one from their wedding day, Eliza’s head tilted back, laughing, as he smears her face with cake.

It feels like a millennium has passed since then.

He leaves work an hour early without saying a word to Burr. Angelica’s on the other side of the city on an assignment, so there’s no one else free to pick Will up from school. He truly couldn’t care less what people at work are saying about him. What’s his boss going to do? Fire a widower? A single father of two?

He takes the train back to Park Slope. There was a time, the first few weeks following the accident, when he wouldn’t take the subway. The very idea of it made him feel nauseous and panicky. Still does, sometimes. If it were possible, he’d just drive his car into the city every day - he still drives it around Brooklyn, at least.

Alex waits outside the school until he sees Will walking down the front steps alone, staring down at his sneakers, hands on his backpack straps. He used to be such a happy kid - and, really, he still is. At seven, he’s old enough to understand death but not quite grasp the finality of it. Angelica’s reassurances that he’ll see Eliza and Philip in heaven one day actually work on him for the most part, but there are still nights he’ll crawl into Alex’s bed and ask _when._ He’s still doing well in school, and his teacher says the other kids have been kind, though he’s had a bit of trouble opening up to them.

About a month ago, he learned that Will stopped playing with his friends on the playground. Hearing that just about destroyed him.

“Hey, sweetie,” Alex says, holding his hand low for a high-five. Will grins and slaps his palm. “Have a good day at school?”

Will nods and takes his hand as they start walking down the sidewalk, toward their block. “Miss Regina made us cookies.”

“Cool. Hey, Aunt Angelica’s coming over tonight for dinner, so you’re going to need to help daddy clean up the kitchen, OK?”

Will doesn’t answer, so Alex lets go of his hand and shakes his shoulder playfully. “You OK, bud?” 

Will stops walking and looks up at him. And, God, he looks so much like Philip - long dark curls with almost amber-colored eyes, just the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Dad? We always go home after school.”

Alex frowns. “Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

Will shrugs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, we used to do stuff. Like go to the park. Or get lemonade. Today at school, Molly said her mom took her to Central Park on Saturday. We never go to Central Park.”

Alex hesitates. “Will, we’d have to take the train to get to Central Park, I - ”

Will’s shoulders slump. He stares back down at his shoes. Alex sighs and looks around, and then up at the trees lining the sidewalk. It really is a beautiful day - maybe one of the last beautiful days they’ll have before the winter creeps in.  He looks back down at his son and nods.

“OK. Let’s go to Central Park.”

The smile on Will’s face when he looks up at him makes it worth the ride back into the city.

—

Walking in Central Park in the fall is like stepping into a sunset - everything is brown and gold and red. Alex takes Will to the Pond first. He watches the ducks while Alex settles in on one of the benches, breathing in the fresh air. It feels good - being surrounded by nature and the smell of crisp, fall leaves instead of piss and sewage.

There was a part of him that wanted to pick up and move after they lost Eliza and Philip. Ditch New York, head upstate or maybe even west. Anywhere, really. Alex entertained the idea for weeks. When it came down to it, though, he knew he couldn’t leave Angelica or take the kids out of their schools. Like it or not, New York was their home.

Will eventually grows tired of the ducks, so they head north. Alex is pretty sure there’s a playground somewhere in this corner of the park, but he doesn’t want to be here all evening - they’re already going to miss dinner with Angelica and Angie. They’re walking past the zoo entrance when Will stops and tugs on his arm.

“Daddy! Can we go?”

Alex sighs and looks at his wrist watch. “They close in about an hour, buddy. We don’t have time - besides, it’s a lot of money. Come on.”

He grabs Will’s hand and gently pulls him along, ignoring his pouting. They walk a few more minutes before Will slows and starts dragging his feet.

“William,” Alex warns, apologizing to a couple behind them and pulling Will off to the side of the path. “Stop that. We can’t go to the zoo today.”

Will crosses his arms, lips curling into a frown, nostrils flaring. “We never do anything fun anymore!”

Alex freezes. Fucking great. A public meltdown is just what he needs today.

“This isn’t ‘no’ to the zoo forever, Will, this is just ‘no’ to the zoo today,” Alex reasons, squatting down in front of him so their eyes are level. “OK? I’m not trying to be mean. Don’t you want more time to see the animals?”

Will shrugs a shoulder and Alex sighs, standing upright. He spots the familiar mustard yellow and blue umbrellas over a hotdog stand, tucked away in the shade a bit further down the path. That’ll have to do.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Will along. He drops his hand for a moment while he fishes out his wallet to pay for their food, and it takes unnecessary amount of time for the vendor to break his $20 bill and count out the change.

When he turns back around, a hotdog in each hand, Will is gone.

Alex’s chest physically aches. His feet suddenly feel like they’ve been tied to weights. He squeezes the hotdogs as he whirls back around to the vendor.

“Did you see my son walk off?” he asks, tears already pricking at his eyes. The vendor frowns and shakes his head, goes back to opening a new pack of napkins. Fucking New Yorkers.

Alex throws the hotdogs in the nearest trash bin and practically runs back toward the zoo entrance, shouldering past families and nearly tripping over joggers. He’s so horrifically out of shape that he’s already out of breath by the time he’s under the bridge, where Will first started to complain.

He stops and looks around, hot tears streaming down his face. A crowd of tourists parts, and then he sees him, standing next to one of the benches lining the path. There’s a man crouched in front of him, hands gripping Will’s narrow shoulders while he scans the crowd, squinting against the sun.

“William!” Alex yells, panting as he runs up to the bench, a mix of relief and a hot wave of anger washing over him all at once. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Will shrinks back, his face flushed and eyes wet with unshed tears. The man, still kneeling in front of him, looks up at Alex.

“Are you his father?”

“Yeah, I’m his fucking father,” Alex snaps, grabbing Will’s arm. The man lets go of Will’s shoulders and stands up, dusting dirt and gravel off the knees of his suit.

Alex is on the verge of taking everything out on this man - the mere suggestion that he’s not Will’s dad is enough to send him into a spiraling rage - but once he’s standing at his full height, he thinks better of it and clamps his jaw shut. This guy has a good four or five inches on him, with shoulders that he can barely believe fit in his suit jacket. But despite a rather intimidating physical appearance, it’s his eyes that calm Alex - warm and brown under thick brows and gently webbed with crows feet. Alex deflates. He hastily wipes off his cheeks. He must look like a fucking basket case.

“Will,” he says, looking back down at his son. His voice is still shaky. “You _cannot_ run off like that. You scared me to death.”

“Daddy, I’m sorry…” Will says, his bottom lip trembling.

“You’re lucky this nice man found you,” he says, nodding in the man’s direction, their eyes meeting for a moment. “Honey, we’ve talked about this.”

Will stares down at his shoes and sniffles. The man clears his throat awkwardly.

“He wanted to go to the zoo,” he says.

“Yeah, well, that’s definitely not happening now,” Alex says, crossing his arms. “We’re going home.”

Will’s face crumbles and he starts to cry in earnest. Alex feels his own face growing warm with guilt - Will inherited Eliza’s shyness. He knows better than to humiliate him in front of a stranger. Just add it to the list of all the ways he’s letting his family down.

“My dad says the zoo is too much money,” Will says to the man between sniffles and gasps for air. And now, Alex’s face is burning for an entirely different reason.

“William - ”

The man blinks but otherwise seems unruffled. He checks his watch and Alex recognizes it as a Rolex - similar to the one his father-in-law wore up until his death. Well, fuck.   

“Well. They close in about forty minutes,” the man says, and then, voice low so only Alex can hear. “I’m not trying to undermine you, but he seems - you both seem like you could use a pick-me-up. Let me pay for your admissions.”

Alex’s eyes narrow. This guy cannot be fucking real. But then, he sees Will out of the corner of his eye, staring up at them. And he realizes he can’t end the day like this. Realizes he doesn’t want to go home feeling like a failure, like he’s bringing nothing but grief into his son’s life.

His shoulders slump. He’ll let his pride take a hit if it makes his kid happy for the rest of the evening. This guy is a perfect stranger. Alex will never see him again, so it really doesn’t matter what he thinks. He’s just some rich guy trying to do his good deed for the day. Whatever.

“OK. Sure.”

The man smiles down at Will. “I think forty minutes is enough time for you and your dad to see a few of the animals.”

Will’s face lights up, wide eyes flickering to Alex’s. Alex gives him a tight smile and nods.

They’re walking over to the ticket gate when Will falls in step with the man and tugs on his suit sleeve. “Sir? Are you going to come with us?”

Alex almost groans. The man stops and looks back at him, shrugging a shoulder. “If your dad’s OK with it, sure.”

Will turns and looks at him hopefully. Alex sighs and returns the shrug. It’s not as if he can just say no.

“Yeah. That’s fine. Mr. - ”

“Washington,” the man finishes for him, extending his hand. Alex steps forward and shakes it. “George Washington.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” Alex says. George squeezes his hand before releasing it. Alex turns back to Will. “Yeah. Mr. Washington can come with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Pinterest board](http://pin.it/6HUoCq9) for Chapter One is up!
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - come talk to me there!
> 
> And thank you, [malapertqueen](http://malapertqueen.tumblr.com/), for your invaluable feedback!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George grabs a map from one of the kiosks once they pass through the gates. The food stands and most of the shops are already starting to shut down. What few families are left are emptying out through the exit.
> 
> “All right,” George says, handing Will the map and crouching down to read it with him. “What do you want to see first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Pinterest board](http://pin.it/jNFxkoY) for Chapter Two is up!
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - come talk to me there!
> 
> And thank you, [malapertqueen](http://malapertqueen.tumblr.com/), for helping me sort all this out. 
> 
> It's also probably worth nothing daily updates aren't going to be a typical thing. I'd expect twice a week updates!

George grabs a map from one of the kiosks once they pass through the gates. The food stands and most of the shops are already starting to shut down. What few families are left are emptying out through the exit.

“All right,” George says, handing Will the map and crouching down to read it with him. “What do you want to see first?”

Will is weighing the pros and cons of visiting the snow monkeys before the sea lions, so Alex heads over to an ATM by the bathrooms. He withdraws $40 – it’s a little more than the cost of his ticket and Will’s, but he doesn’t mind. If he’s going to spend the next half hour with George, he’s not going to spend it insecure and embarrassed.

“All right, we have a game plan,” George says, clapping his hands together and standing upright when Alex returns, tucking his wallet into his back pocket. “If we start with the snow monkeys and end with the sea lions, we’ll pass the grizzly bears, the seals and the penguins. It’s definitely doable.”

Will nods, determined, and tilts his head all the way back to look up at George. “Mr. Washington said they used to have polar bears here, but now the penguins are his favorite.”

Alex can’t help but smile as they start walking, following the signs pointing them in the direction of the monkeys. He takes Will’s hand and turns to George. “The polar bears were great, though I’m pretty partial toward the red pandas.”

As it turns out, George has a wealth of information about the history of the zoo and its animals, which he relays to Will in agonizing detail – and Will is loving it. Alex is fairly certain he’s asking George every question imaginable – what are the grizzly bears’ names? Are they related? Do they have babies? How do the seals hold their breath for so long? And George, if he’s annoyed, doesn’t show it. He answers the questions he can, and whips out his iPhone to Google the rest.

Alex steps away in the middle of an impassioned conversation about whether or not penguins and puffins are related, parking himself on a bench and checking his phone. He has an unread text from Angelica, a response to one he sent earlier about their change of plans.

_That’s fine, we just ordered takeout. Hope Will has fun. See you soon._

He pockets his phone and looks up to see George watching him from the penguin tank. Alex sits up a little straighter. It’s funny – initially, he thought George looked like a two-a-penny New Yorker in a suit. He’s handsome, just like any other guy who has his tailor on speed dial and can afford a fancy gym membership. But having been married to a Schuyler, Alex has been around enough rich people to know they’re not all wired the same. And George, well – he seems genuine.

George smiles at him and puts a hand on Will’s shoulder. Alex is out of earshot, so he doesn’t hear what George says to his son before making his way over to the bench.

“Are you having a good time?” George asks.

“Yeah – yeah, sorry,” Alex says, moving over to make room for him. George sits. “My sister-in-law is with my daughter right now, so I just wanted to check in with them.”

George nods. For a moment, they’re both silent – just watching Will press his hands against the glass, laughing every time one of the penguins swims past him. Alex fishes his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out the two $20 bills.

“Hey, thanks for paying for us and everything, but I really can’t – well, here.”

He hands the money out for George, waiting. George waves a dismissive hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Please.”

Alex runs his thumb over the bills and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, choosing his next words carefully. “What Will said earlier – about the zoo being too expensive. That’s not really true. We’re doing OK. We’re not poor or anything. We’re just on a budget.”

“Alex-”

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about us,” he interrupts, folding the money back into his wallet. “My wife used to manage all of our finances – she was way better at that than me. So I’m just trying to be careful.”

He sees George’s eyes dart to his left hand where his wedding band – a steely matte gray with a rose gold stripe through the center – still rests. Alex touches it self-consciously. This is far from the first time he’s had to explain himself after talking about Eliza in past tense. It’s fine.

“She passed away in February,” Alex says, looking back up at George and swallowing. Nothing quite changes in his face, and Alex finds himself thankful for that. Most people tend to overreact. “So we’re just trying – we’re trying to be careful.”

George nods. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Alex nods, too, and looks down at his shoes. It feels good to be validated. He’s used to being told what he’s doing _wrong._ There’s another beat of silence. “She was a big fan of the gorilla they used to have here – Patty?”

“Pattycake,” George says. “She was the first gorilla born here in New York City.”

“OK,” Alex laughs. “Do you secretly work here or something?”

George smiles. “No. I’ve just lived near this zoo for over two decades now. You learn things.”

“Well, Will is loving having his own, personal tour guide,” Alex says. “Seriously. Thank you. I hope we didn’t keep you from anything.”

“Not at all,” George says, just as Will spins around to yell back at Alex.

“Daddy! Did you see the penguin slide on his belly!”

“Yeah, buddy! That was super cool!” Alex yells back. Will turns around and George shoots him a puzzled look.

“I’ve been a dad for literally half my life,” Alex explains wearily. “Sometimes it’s easier to just lie to your kids.”

George starts laughing at that – it’s a full-bodied chuckle, the kind of laugh that makes Alex laugh, just from the sound of it. And he’s glad George isn’t doing the math in his head, or asking questions about his kids. The whole widower thing is probably enough of a downer. He doesn’t want to explain his 19-year-old son, too.

George checks his watch and they start heading for the exit with ten minutes to spare. Alex is warring with himself over the appropriate response to all that George has done for them. Do they just part ways? Does he try to give him the forty bucks, one more time? Offer to pay for his cab? He’s still making up his mind when Will stops in his tracks as they near the exit. He’s staring at the gift shop.

“No,” Alex says without missing a beat.

“Dad – ”

“William. They probably already locked the doors.”

Alex used to be the fun parent – Eliza was the strict and disciplined one. That was their whole shtick.  He used to love it; the way they balanced each other out. With Eliza gone, he doesn’t even feel like he’s playing both roles anymore. Most days, he just feels _mean._

“Hang on, hang on,” George says before Will can get upset. He heads toward the shop doors, waving them along. Will looks back at Alex and follows.

Alex hesitates before trailing after them. Now he’s getting a little uncomfortable. On one hand, he can sense that George’s heart is in the right place. But he doesn’t want him to get too carried away. He doesn’t want Will to think this is normal.

But on the other hand, this is the happiest he’s seen his son in months.

George talks to the shop owner while Will browses, and Alex senses that he knows her, somehow. She doesn’t seem bothered by the fact it’s literally ten minutes past five and they haven’t left the zoo yet. Alex doesn’t want to eavesdrop, so he moves over to the bookshelves and pretends to browse the titles - they’re mostly children’s books. He hears heavy footsteps approaching a few minutes later.

“I hope this is all right,” George says, joining Alex by the shelves.

Alex looks up at him and shrugs a shoulder. “Well. He’s having more fun than he would sitting at home.”

“And you?” George asks.

He considers this for a moment. It has been nice – talking to another adult who’s not a coworker or his sister-in-law. And he hasn’t been home since this morning. Usually by this time, he’s already looking forward to crawling into his bed – not out and about with his son. It _has_ been nice. A welcome distraction from everything else.

“I’ve had a good time,” Alex says. The corner of George’s mouth twitches up into a smile.

Will picks out a gorilla jigsaw puzzle and an elephant patterned infinity scarf for Angie. Alex is already pulling out his wallet, because he sure as hell isn’t about to let George pay for the gifts, too – but the shop owner waves them away with a smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says with a smile. Alex looks back at George as they shuffle out of the shop, waiting for an explanation. But George doesn’t offer one.

“Well,” Alex says once they’re outside the gates, right back where they started. He puts his arm around Will’s shoulders and nods toward George. “Say thank you to Mr. Washington, Will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Washington,” Will says, stepping forward and hugging George around the waist.

George smiles down at him. “You’re very welcome, young man.”

Alex holds out his hand. George shakes it. They part ways. And that’s that.

-

He finds Angelica curled up on the living room sectional, the _New York Times_ spread out across her lap and on the coffee table, one of Eliza’s pottery mugs in her hand.

“How was the zoo?” she asks without looking up from the opinion section. Angie’s seated at the kitchen island, highlighting the page of a text book, wearing her earbuds.

“Do you want to tell Aunt Angelica about our trip?” Alex asks Will, heading into the kitchen and dropping his messenger bag on the island. Will plops down on the living room floor, opening up the shopping bag from the gift shop and pulling out the jigsaw puzzle box to show Angelica. Then, he’s off - excitedly rambling on about their day.

Alex sets his MacBook up across from Angie. She looks up and pulls one ear bud out.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hey, sweetie,” he says, squeezing her shoulder as he circles over to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Have a good day at school?”

Angie shrugs, twirling the earbud cord around her finger and shutting her textbook. “Yeah. It was OK.”

Alex just nods and fires up his laptop. He wouldn’t say his relationship with Angie has soured since they lost Eliza and Philip. That’s not it. They’ve always been close. But Alex knows it’s different for her - losing her mother at fourteen, during what will be the most formative years of her life as a young woman. That’s something he’ll never be able to fully comprehend, a void he’ll never be able to fill. He’s thankful for Angelica. But he knows it’s not the same.

“Angie, we got something for you,” Will says, running over to the kitchen island with the elephant scarf clutched in his fist. He holds it out to her. “We got it for free! Mr. Washington took us to the store and we just got to walk out without spending any money! It was so cool!”

From the couch, Angelica lowers the newspaper, her eyes narrowing. Angie takes the scarf hesitantly.

“Uh, dad?”

“We didn’t steal anything,” Alex says, taking a sip of his beer and pulling his email up on his laptop. “It’s a long story.”

And, frankly, it’s a story even he doesn’t fully comprehend.

He half-listens as Will continues to recount their evening, cracking a smile whenever he describes George - _he was so tall, he made dad look little_ and _he knew all about the penguins and the seals._

That’s when his curiosity gets the best of him. It suddenly doesn’t feel right - that this man who made such a difference in Will’s day - in _his_ day - is just gone. Alex can’t pinpoint what it is, exactly, that he wants.

So he opens a new tab and types _“George Washington New York City”_ into the Google search bar. The first result is a blog post from the Central Park Zoo, with the headline _“Manhattan prosecutor donates $90K to Wildlife Conservation Society.”_

Alex raises his eyebrows. Well. That explains…a lot.

The other results are mostly news stories he’s quoted in. The sentencing for some sexual assault case involving a couple NYU students, a preliminary hearing for a triple homicide in Harlem. And then, a few results down, he finds a link to the New York County District Attorney’s Office website. He clicks through and finds George’s name listed under the header “Meet the Executive Team,” next to a striking black and white headshot. He looks about ten years younger.

_George Washington serves as Chief Assistant District Attorney. In that capacity, he oversees all aspects of the Office’s work and acts in the District Attorney’s place when he is absent. Mr. Washington joined the office in…_

Alex doesn’t read the rest of the biography. Instead, he picks his phone off the counter and shoots a text to Burr. If Washington works at the DA’s office, Burr will have his email address.

A hand falls between his shoulder blades and he nearly jumps out of his stool. When he looks up, he realizes both Will and Angie have retreated to their rooms.

“I’m going to head out,” Angelica says, already in her jacket, her tangerine Hermes Birkin tote hooked over her elbow. “It sounds like Will made a friend?”

Alex laughs. “I guess you could say that.”

Angelica smiles. “You get any words of wisdom today?”

“Let’s see. Burr essentially told me I should have my shit in order by now and disguised it as - ” Alex makes air quotes and lowers his voice, doing his best Burr impression. “‘Just trying to look out for you, man.’”

Angelica rolls her eyes. “I think I have you beat. I got an ‘at least you still have Peggy?’”

Alex’s jaw drops and Angelica smirks, nodding.

“I think they meant it - ”

“I know how they meant it,” Angelica says, leaning forward and kissing him once on each cheek. “Doesn’t make it any better. See you at work tomorrow.”

Alex watches her disappear down the hallway, heeled booties clicking lightly on the hardwood floors. He hears the front door open and close.

The house is uncomfortably silent for a moment or two, and then his phone vibrates with a text from Burr.

 _gwashington@manhattanda.com_ _why?_

Alex doesn’t answer. He pulls up a blank email and stares at the blinking text cursor. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous. All he has to do is type up a few sentences, thank him again - that’s it. He writes and rewrites the email twice before he’s finally satisfied.

_**Subject: Thank you** _

_Mr. Washington,_

_Will was still talking about our trip to the zoo when we got home tonight. You really did make his day. I think he’s in his room trying to assemble that puzzle now._

After a moment’s hesitation, he adds on another sentence.

_It’s been a rough few months for us. It’s a relief to know there are still some good people out there._

_Sincerely,_

_Alex Hamilton_

He sends the email before he can overthink it - and then immediately curses under his breath. He didn’t even bother to explain where he got George’s email address. Perfect.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself, rubbing his hands over his face, groaning. George is just a friendly guy who wanted to do something nice - he probably didn’t even pay for their tickets.

He doesn’t need to dwell on this. 

His inbox updates with a quiet _ping_. A new email pops up at the top. His heart flutters in his chest - but then he sees the name next to the subject line. Thomas Paine.

_**Subject: Tomorrow morning (!)** _

_Alex,_

_Let’s meet when you come in tomorrow. I’ll expect to see you at 9 a.m. We need to touch base._

_Thanks._

_Tom_

Alex slams his laptop shut.

Fucking Burr.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex shows up to work a half hour early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pinterest Board](http://pin.it/BtQ7kWl) for this chapter. 
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - come talk to me there!

Alex shows up to work a half hour early. Overcompensating now isn’t going to do much if Paine is already set on firing him, but his tension hasn’t lessened since reading the email. The extra half hour gives him time. Time to process and unwind, figure out how the fuck he’s going to explain himself. Even though he thinks  _single-father-trying-to-get-his-kids-to-school-on-time_ is a pretty solid excuse. 

He’s mulling over his options as he sets up his laptop. He’s not in a position to just quit his job, though that would be the easiest and most satisfying solution. He could try to talk Paine into switching around his hours - maybe let him work from home or do the occasional half-day. There’s got to be something. 

He can feel his chest tightening, feel the panic starting to sink in, when he sees it - an unread email from George Washington with a 7:06 a.m. timestamp sitting at the top of his inbox. It takes him a few seconds to remember - he wrote to him last night. Right. 

_**Subject: Thank You** _

_Alex,_

_Meeting you and your son was a pleasure. Glad to hear Will had a nice time. By the way, how did you get my email?_

_George_

Alex groans. He’d hoped George would just see his email address and connect the dots - realize that he worked with Burr and let it be. He’s typing and retyping a response when the office door opens and slams shut, and - speak of the devil -

“Hey, Alexander,” Burr demands, behind him. “What did you want with George Washington’s email?”

Alex swivels his chair around to face him. Burr - brow creased, thin arms crossed tightly across his chest - looks positively livid. If he wasn’t worrying about losing his job, Alex would find it amusing. He already knows, right off the bat, that this has nothing to do with asking for George’s email and everything to do with ignoring Burr’s text from the night before. 

“I ran into him yesterday and wanted to thank him for something,” Alex says with an apathetic shrug, toying with him. He twists his chair back around to face his desk. “Thanks for sending it to me.”

Burr scoffs. Alex knows he’s being petty, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s almost certain Burr’s the one who blabbed to Paine about his hours. Not when Burr could very likely be the reason he gets canned, with two kids depending solely on him - 

The office door squeaks open again and there’s a light rap on the doorframe. Alex wheels back around. There’s Paine in one of his trademark ill-fitting suits, receding hairline and all. 

“Hamilton? My office.”

Paine shoots him a tight-lipped smile before slinking off. Burr stares after him, slack-jawed. 

“Yeah,” Alex hisses under his breath, climbing to his feet and shouldering past Burr. “Thanks a lot.”

But the look Burr gives him, some mix of pity and dread, tells him - no. This isn’t Burr’s doing. This is all on him. For not listening when Burr warned him. For not going to Paine when his schedule started falling apart. A voice in a dark corner of his mind taunts him.  _You fucked up again._

“Tom,” Alex starts before Paine has even closed his office door and sunk into his chair, looking world-weary. He takes one look at Alex and huffs out a resigned sigh. “Look, you know I’m the hardest worker here. For Christ’s sake, you promoted me to managing editor for a reason. I get my shit done in half - hell, not even half - a quarter of the time it takes everyone else. I know my schedule has been fucked up. I know it’s been nine months. But all my work is always done on time. Before the deadlines, even. Come on. I need you to cut me some slack here.”

“Hamilton. Sit.”

Alex drops into the chair across from Paine’s desk and waits. Paine looks at him for a beat, then sighs.

“You know I’m sympathetic to your situation,” he says, and Alex has to hold in a groan - that’s so typical. So expected. “But the truth is, it’s not good for morale. You coming in late and leaving early - as an  _editor?_  - the team sees that. And it doesn’t look good.”

“Let me make sure I’m hearing this right,” Alex says. “The death of half my family makes me look like I’m not being a team player.”

Paine cringes at that. “You’re being difficult. Here’s what I’m suggesting: A performance improvement plan - ”

“My  _performance_  is fine - ”

“-You come in at 9 a.m. every morning. You leave by 5 p.m. You stay late if the workload calls for it. It’s not so much of a plan as it is me just asking you to do your job. I’ll give you a week to figure something out with your kids - a babysitter, nanny whatever. You’re not the only single father in New York City. It’s time to stop acting like one.”

Alex doesn’t respond. He knows if he does, that’s it - he’ll do something he’ll regret. Quit on the spot. Flip Paine off and actually get fired. He thinks of his kids, instead. Takes a calming breath, and nods.

“Fine,” he says. “OK.”

Paine’s lips curl into a smile that Alex doesn’t return. “So we’re on the same page?”

“We’re on the same page.”

“Good. Now. While I have you in here. Jay was going to cover that gala for Jefferson tonight, but he’s down with the flu. He’s going to have enough shit to catch up on, whenever he gets back. Are you good with taking the lead on that profile? Gala’s at 7 p.m.”

Alex stares. “Thomas Jefferson.”

Paine gives him a tired look. “He’s the youngest president in Columbia’s history. He’s new to the role. It’s timely, it’s a story. What, would you rather I have Angelica –”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Alex says, grinding his teeth and heading for the door. Great. He hasn’t seen Jefferson since the funeral - hasn’t had any reason to see him, thank the fucking Lord. He’s certainly not looking forward to Jefferson feigning interest in his family’s well-being; not when he’s already well-aware of what he thinks of him and his marriage. Alex is good at putting on a convincing front - but being called an opportunist and a leech? That’s something he’s never quite been able to shake. Even after all these years. He turns back around. “I can’t claim that this is a conflict of interest?”

“No.”

Alex closes the door behind him and curses under his breath.

Fuck.

He’s going to have to find a babysitter.

-

“Alex. Angie is fourteen. She’s old enough to watch William.”

He’s sitting with Angelica in Bryant Park, a carryout box full of empanadas placed between them on the bistro table. The weather is still calm and cool and Angelica, dressed in an olive leather jacket and a light scarf, has already embraced her autumn wardrobe. Alex notices she’s wearing a berry-colored lipstick. He’s never really seen her without makeup. Even after Eliza died. He still doesn’t get it – how she could just wake up every morning and follow the same routine. Go for a run, put on her lipstick, iron her clothes. Keep going.

“We’ve never really left them alone,” Alex says. “I don’t – what if they need an adult?”

“Angie has your number and she has mine,” Angelica says patiently. “She’ll call.”

“Neither of us will even be in Brooklyn if something happens.”

Angelica delicately splits an empanada, tosses the other half back into the box, and sighs. “Some responsibility might be good for her. You know I would watch them, but I can’t cancel on Peggy a third time. She needs me, too.”

He gets that. He does. But he’s not OK with being uptown while his kids are all the way in Park Slope, an hour away on a good day. He’s just hasn’t reached that point yet. 

“I’ll figure something out.”

Angelica softens. “Look, if you need me to, I can always have Peggy come to Brooklyn.”

Alex shakes his head. Angelica will always be in his corner, regardless, but he also knows he’s been relying on her more than he should. He knows her friendships have suffered, that she hasn’t dated – not really. That her days outside of work are usually spent helping Alex around the house before retreating to her own a few blocks down. She’d sold her own place in Lenox Hill, just to be closer to them. Uprooted her entire life without a single complaint.  

In the back of his mind, he knows he needs to be looking out for her. In the same way she’s looked out for him.

 “Go spend time with Peggy,” he says. “I have an idea.”

Angelica has a meeting across town, so Alex heads back to the office alone. He finds Burr sitting at his desk picking at a kale salad, earbuds in and scrolling through his iPad. 

“So you know a lot about the guys over at the DA’s office, right?” he asks, leaning against the side of Burr’s desk. 

Burr pulls an earbud out and looks up at him warily. “Well, yeah. Why?”

“Anything I should know about George Washington?”

Burr’s face falls, just slightly. It’s enough to show Alex there’s something Burr’s not telling him. Whatever it is, it’s gone almost as soon as he notices.

“What about him?” he asks slowly. “He’s the Chief Assistant. Right under Mercer. But Mercer’s hardly there to begin, just because he’s getting old and doesn’t give a shit anymore. Washington’s basically the de facto DA. Not a whole lot to know.”

“I mean – he’s been a source of yours ever since you started working this beat, right? He’s not a shady guy? You don’t have any dirt on him?”

Burr actually laughs, breaking out into a perfect, gleaming smile. Alex quirks an eyebrow. 

“George Washington? He is literally, maybe, the most boring, stiff, straight-laced guy I know. Strikes me as a bit of a dick, honestly. Runs a pretty tight ship.” Burr snorts before adding, “But his staff really seems to love him, so I guess he’s got that going for him.”

Alex frowns. _‘Bit of a dick’_ aren’t exactly the words he’d use to describe the man who went out of his way to take William to the zoo. Then again, it’s Burr. So he takes it with a grain of salt.

“Why are you suddenly all interested in Washington?” Burr calls after him as he walks back to his own desk, brushing his fingers across his trackpad and waking his laptop up. The unanswered email from George stares back at him.

“No reason,” Alex answers, distracted as he types back his response.

_**Subject: Thank you** _

_George,_

_Got your email from a colleague here at the_ Gazette. 

_Can I call you?_

_Alex_

-

George rings the bell while Alex is still pulling on his suit - a bottle-green two-piece Eliza picked out last year for Philip’s graduation. It used to fit like a glove. Now he fastens his belt in a couple extra notches. The fabric across his shoulders is a little loose, the fit in the thigh not as flattering. There’s no way of knowing how much weight he’s lost since February, figures he’ll worry about that if it gets to the point where he’s buying new clothes.

“Hey,” Alex greets him at the door, barefoot, his hair a tangled, loose mess. “You’re here early. That’s great. Come in.”

He’s not sure why he expected George to be dressed up, too. He guesses that’s just how he’s engrained in his mind now - the suit in the park. Instead, he’s wearing a dark gray cable-knit sweater and black slacks, the leather strap of his messenger bag snug across his chest.

“Thanks again for doing this,” he says, stepping back to let George through the door. “I really do appreciate it.”

George cracks a smile and looks around, taking in the living room. It’s a bit messy - Angie’s textbooks littering the coffee table, Will’s half-assembled LEGO castle shoved to a far corner, their fall jackets draped over the back of the couch. But George doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

“You have a beautiful home,” he says, setting his bag next to the couch. 

Alex gives him a brief tour of the front rooms and stops in the kitchen to go over dinner - _“you don’t have to cook for them, there’s $30 on the counter for carryout or something, but you’re free to use whatever you need in here”_ \- and then heads down the hall to show him the bathroom, grabbing his hairbrush as they walk out. 

They’re going back to the main room when Will comes barreling down the staircase, Angie trailing after him. He runs straight into George’s legs, squeezing him around the waist. Alex nearly snaps, but then George is laughing and crouching down to hug him back.

“Dad said you’re watching us tonight!” Will says, grinning. “Do you like LEGOs?”

“I love LEGOs.”

Angie, already in her pajamas, stays at the base of the staircase, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Alex steps up next to her and puts an arm tight around her shoulders, giving her a little squeeze.

“George, this is my daughter, Angie. Angie, this is Mr. Washington.”

George stands back up and greets her with a firm handshake and a kind smile. Angie regards him carefully for a moment, tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear, and then smiles, too. A little shy. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says politely, eyes flickering to Alex’s for a moment. “Dad said you work for the District Attorney’s office?”

“I do.”

“Angie wants to study law,” Alex offers, nudging her with his elbow. “You should definitely pick Mr. Washington’s brain.”

“Yeah,” Angie agrees, though Alex detects the uncertainty laced in her voice. “I have a lot of homework to do so I think I’m just going to be up in my room tonight.”

Alex shrugs and Angie heads back up the stairs, shooting George a strained smile before disappearing back down the upstairs hallway. Will is already sorting through his LEGOs in the corner. 

“She’s a sweet girl,” Alex explains off of George’s puzzled look. “She’s usually in her room when I’m around, too, so don’t be too offended.” 

George only nods, shoving his hands deep in his pockets while Alex tugs on his shoes and starts running his brush through his hair, loosening the tangles. He feels a sudden, unwelcome rush of panic settle in the pit of his stomach. George, despite his honorable profession, Burr’s reassurances, everything he did for Will at the zoo, is still fundamentally, a stranger. He’s leaving his kids with some guy he met _yesterday_. 

Eliza would kill him.

He freezes, mid-brush. He can’t leave. He’s trying to figure out what to say to George, how to explain himself without sounding like a total ass, when George frowns and digs his phone out of his pocket.

“The shellfish allergy,” he says. “That’s Angie, not Will - right?”

Alex blinks. “Yeah.”

George nods and types something in his phone. “Got it - sorry. I don’t want to mix that up.”

Alex sucks in his bottom lip and nods. OK. Yes. He can do this. 

“You have my phone number, so just call if you need _anything_ ,” he says, gathering his hair in his fist. He’s about to tie it up when George, watching him, hums low in his throat. Almost thoughtful.

“What?” Alex asks, stilling.

“You should leave it down - your hair, that is,” George says, shrugging. “It looks nice like that.”

Alex loosens his grip and lets his hair fall back to his shoulders, combing it down with his fingers. George’s eyes sweep over him. He nods his approval. 

“You look good, Alex.”

He feels a blush creep into his cheeks - weird. He’s not embarrassed or flustered or anything, really. Yet his entire face feels like it’s caught fire. It doesn’t ease up until he steps outside and sucks in a sharp breath, like he’s coming up for air.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex uses the train ride to write out his questions for Jefferson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pinterest Board](http://pin.it/0a561hV) for this chapter. 
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - come talk to me there!

Alex uses the train ride to write out his questions for Jefferson. It’s a nice distraction. He tries to avoid the 1 train whenever possible, now – it’s too painful. The footage from that cold afternoon in February is still vivid in his mind. The split subway car flat on its side, paramedics carrying mangled bodies on stretchers. Some of the survivors, later, would describe it as dreamlike and otherworldly. He thinks that’s the standard response. _It never felt like it was happening to me._ For so long, Alex found himself hating the people who lived. Felt physically ill every time he turned on the news in the following weeks to find yet another 20-something Midwestern transplant dabbing the corners of her eyes, whining about how _blessed_ she was to be alive.

He checks his phone as soon as he’s above ground, his stomach doing somersaults when he sees two unread texts from George. He knows, in the back of his mind, that he’s only been unreachable for a little over an hour and, really, it’s _fine_. And George’s texts confirm that.

_[6:32 p.m.] Do you have a strainer?_

_[6:46 p.m.] Disregard. Found it._

Alex frowns and types _“I told you not to worry about cooking.”_ He waits for the blinking ellipses at the bottom of the screen, but George doesn’t write back. It’s fine, but he’s going to learn just how fucking picky his kids can be.

Stepping into Faculty House, the setup for Jefferson’s welcoming gala is just as gaudy and infuriating as he expected – sleek black tables lined with intricately stacked rose, lavender and pistachio macarons. Wide-eyed waiters with silver trays of champagne flutes, awkwardly circling clusters of people. There’s even a goddamn baby grand piano tucked in the corner.

He wonders what would happen if he knocked over one of the macaron towers. Just fucking swept his arm right through one.

Jefferson, dressed in a checkered brown three-piece suit, sees Alex from his spot in the center of the room, surrounded by Columbia faculty. He whispers something to the man next to him without taking his eyes off Alex. He smiles slyly, almost catlike, and Alex feels that familiar anxiety burn in the pit of his stomach. He’s not a cripplingly insecure 22-year-old anymore, worrying what his fiancée’s friends think of him. But God, Jefferson has always found a way to bring out the worst in him.

“Alexander,” Jefferson says, shouldering through his guests and over to Alex, Alex’s name thick on his tongue. He’s got one hand placed over his heart, clutching his chest, and Alex already knows what’s coming. “It’s been so long. Tell me - how are your children?”

Alex grabs a champagne flute off a passing tray. He’s going to need it.

“The kids are good,” he says after taking a long sip. He’s not going to elaborate. Knows Jefferson doesn’t really give a shit. He forces out the next bit. “Congratulations on the new job.”

Jefferson smirks and gestures around the room. “Can you believe the university put all this together? For me? I’m honored you could make it. And you have to try the fried goat cheese balls, but _with_ the blackberry ketchup.”

Alex’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. But he manages what he’s sure looks like an overly-enthusiastic smile. “Actually, I think this is Columbia tradition for every incoming president. And I’m here on official business. That profile Jay was going to write up for the _Gazette_? I’m taking the lead. So, I’m thinking we just knock the interview out tonight.”

Jefferson takes a step back and looks him up and down. The mood - however contrived it was - has shifted. Jefferson’s eyes land on Alex’s shoes. He scoffs. “Set it up with my secretary. I’m not speaking with press tonight.”

“Yeah, but if we talk tonight we won’t have to see each other again,” Alex offers. Might as well voice what they’re both thinking.

“Set it up with my secretary,” Jefferson repeats. He’s dropped the whole gracious host  façade. “I have actual guests to take care of. Though, plenty of Eliza’s coworkers from the School of Social Work are here tonight. I’m sure they’d love to see you, considering you’ve all but fallen off the face of the Earth since the funeral.”

Alex’s face drops. He downs the last couple sips of his champagne and passes the glass off to a waiter. Any other night, he thinks, he’d go straight for Jefferson’s jugular. But he barely had the energy to make it to the shower this morning. And, well, he’s here for his job. A job he’s barely holding on to. He takes Eliza’s advice, even now, and lets it go.

“I should be heading out, if we’re done here,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He’s not used to wearing it down, and he’s found himself fiddling with it since he left the house. “Good night, Thomas.”

He’s already heading for the exit when he hears, behind him - “Tell your sister-in-law I said ‘hi.’ A shame she couldn’t make it tonight.”

Alex doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He knows, if he turns back around, he’ll be met with that cunning, curling grin.

—

He’s hit with the scent of lemons as soon as he steps into the foyer. He doesn’t quite know why, but he’s immediately irritated. He _told_ George to just buy the kids takeout. That line of thought leads to a guilt spiral, though, because he can’t really remember the last time he cooked for Angie and William instead of handing them a stack of delivery menus. And, god, he used to _love_ cooking. What the fuck ever happened to that? His chest is tightening and he’s on the verge of what feels like a full-on breakdown when he steps into the kitchen and finds George loading the dishwasher. There’s a plate of still-hot pasta sitting on the island, a fork and knife placed next to it.

“You’re home early,” George says, closing the dishwasher and stepping behind one of the island stools. Alex watches his hands fall on the back of the chair, watches the way his fingers curl around the woodwork. Then his eyes fall to the plate of pasta. He feels like he’s about to cry.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, blinking a couple times until it passes. George notices - he can tell by the way he quirks his eyebrow, inviting an explanation without outright asking for one. “The night it - it didn’t really go as planned. It was, actually, if you include the commute, two-and-a-half hours of my life, wasted.”

George pulls the stool out for him and nods down at the pasta. “I thought you might be hungry. I know how those things go - lots of wine, not enough food.”

Alex climbs up into the seat and leans back, feeling the pressure of George’s knuckles against his shoulder blades before he moves his hands away, lightning fast.

“It’s an asparagus pasta with grilled chicken and a homemade lemon cream sauce,” George says, sitting in the stool next to him. It smells heavenly. Alex eagerly twirls the spaghetti noodles around his fork and pops it into his mouth, closing his eyes and relishing the taste. It really has been too long since he’s had something from his own kitchen.

“This is incredible,” Alex says around a mouthful. Then looks down at his plate, swallowing. “Wait - where did you get all of this?”

George smiles, a bit guiltily.

“I had some groceries delivered,” he says carefully. “It just looked like you could use a few things restocked.”

Strangely enough, the gesture doesn’t make Alex feel pathetic. Mostly because he doesn’t sense that George is doing these things - taking Will to the zoo, agreeing to babysit, buying them fucking groceries, cooking dinner - out of pity. And pity is all that seems to motivate the people around him, now. George is here because, for god knows what reason, he wants to be.

“Thank you,” Alex says, and he means it. He doesn’t offer to pay him back - he already knows that’ll be a losing battle. “The kids - ?”

“Are in bed,” George says. He looks at the food on Alex’s plate a bit forlornly. “They both had dinner, but I’m not sure how much Will liked the food. There are plenty of leftovers in the fridge, by the way. It should reheat well enough for lunch.”

Alex shovels more pasta into his mouth, surprised at how hungry he actually is. George slides off the chair and busies himself around the kitchen, wiping down the countertops and refilling the salt and pepper shakers. Alex looks out into the living room and sees that the clutter from earlier has been tidied up, too. George does this well. Almost too well. He already thinks he knows the answer - he would’ve noticed the wedding band. But he asks, anyway.

“Do you have any kids, George? Are you married?” he asks, scraping the leftover lemon sauce off his plate and licking it from his fork. He sees George’s shoulders tense, and he almost panics, worried he’s hit a sore spot. George turns around to face him, leaning back against the countertops, silent for a moment.

“Well - getting married. It wasn’t exactly easy until 2011.”

Alex frowns, confused, and then it hits him. Oh. _Oh._

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, a little flustered, a little embarrassed. “I know better than to just assume - ”

George shrugs, unbothered. “It’s fine. But no - I’m not married, and no children.” He chuckles. “I’m getting too old for it at this point, to tell you the truth. I would’ve loved to settle down, but I wasn’t out until my mid-30s. The 1980s - it wasn’t exactly the best climate, as a public official, and on top of family expectations…well, by the time I was publicly out, I was so immersed in my career that the idea of having a family, not only was it on the back burner, but it didn’t seem feasible.”

“That’s fair,” Alex says. George holds out his hand for Alex’s empty plate. He passes it over to him. “Eliza and I - we got married when we were only twenty-two and had our first son by the time we were twenty-three. Practically babies ourselves, you know? And looking back, I wouldn’t ever change that, but when I think about it - how I’ve had a family for almost as long as I’ve been a legal adult? Who let us do that?”

George laughs and Alex is caught off guard by how much he actually enjoys the sound of it. He remembers it from their evening at the zoo - God, only yesterday - how it just made him feel _good_. He likes the way it makes the fine lines around George’s eyes look more pronounced, the way it makes his broad shoulders shake a little. When George looks at him again, brown eyes shining, he feels something shift within him. Something’s changed, though he can’t put his finger on what. For a split second, he feels OK.

“I meant to ask,” George says. “Your eldest son - I saw the photos in the hallway - ”

Alex freezes. _No, no, no, no, no._

“Is he away for school - ?”

Alex sucks his lips over his teeth and bites down. It’s been almost a year, true, but this part - it’s one he doubts will ever get any easier.

“I lost my son when I lost my wife,” Alex says. And George, laughing not a minute ago, suddenly looks like all the life has been knocked out of him.

“Oh, Alex - I didn’t - ”

“How could you know?” Alex chokes out a laugh. His eyes start to burn. Great. “I’ve just had a really shitty night. I brought you over to watch my kids for what turned out to be a colossal waste of time, got called out for ignoring my wife’s friends by someone who once called my marriage a _sham_ , and I’m pretty sure my sister-in-law is making some extremely troubling grief-induced decisions. So I’m not - I’m not avoiding this discussion, if it’s one you even want to have, I honestly, really, just want to go to bed.”

Alex props his elbows up on the island and drops his face in his hands. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to cry - he can usually keep that under control around other people, around the kids. He hears heavy footsteps on the kitchen tiles and then a strong hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades - hesitant at first, and then firm pressure.

“Should I let you get some rest?” George asks quietly, still behind Alex, his hand slipping off his shoulder and to the back of his chair. Alex rubs at his face and twists around to look up at him.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll walk you out.”

George nods, gives him the faintest hint of a smile, and crosses over into the living room to grab his bag. Alex watches him adjust the strap across his chest.

“Thank you for tonight,” Alex says, hoping that last moment wasn’t too much for George - too much information, too much _everything._ He slides off the stool and leads him to the door. He’s just starting to wonder under what circumstances he might see him again (if George even wants to see him again) when George pauses at the door and turns back around.

“I’ll be in your neck of the woods Monday,” he says. “Burr - he wants a sit-down to go over the details of this triple homicide case that might go to trial, wants to know what to expect for the evidentiary hearing. He asked me to come by the _Gazette_ offices. Maybe I’ll see you?”

Alex looks up at him and, his eyes - they’re steady and intense and so focused on Alex’s. Almost like he’s the only thing worth looking at, in that moment.

Alex nods, a little breathless. “You’ll see me. Burr and I share an office, unfortunately, so I’m pretty hard to miss. But yeah. Let me buy you lunch or something - as a thank you.”

George smiles as he steps out onto the front stoop. “OK. That sounds nice.”

Alex doubts he’ll actually be the one paying. But, he thinks, it’s an excuse to see him again.

So, it’s fine.

More than fine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you know,” Will says, stuffing his packed lunch in his backpack. “That Mr. Washington is really good at LEGOs? He told me he used to play with them when he was little, but they didn’t have a lot of the fun sets back then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pinterest Board](https://www.pinterest.com/WWA_WWS/).
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

“Did you know,” Will says, stuffing his packed lunch in his backpack. “That Mr. Washington is really good at LEGOs? He told me he used to play with them when he was little, but they didn’t have a lot of the fun sets back then.” 

Alex grins as he finishes spreading peanut butter onto Angie’s sandwich, sealing it up in a Ziploc baggie. It’s one of those rare mornings where they all seem to have woken up in a somewhat decent mood, a morning where the grief that’s seeped into the walls of their home has lessened. The kids are smiling, the morning sun is shining through the bay windows. Alex feels well-rested for once, doesn’t feel like his head has been shoved underwater. And, well, it’s Monday. He has lunch plans.

It feels good to have lunch plans again. 

“You’ve only talked about him nonstop since last week,” Angie says, shrugging on her jacket and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “We know.”

“Hey, attitude,” Alex says, gathering up his laptop bag and house keys, patting his back pockets until he locates his wallet. “I’m seeing Mr. Washington today, so I’ll be sure to tell him he’s got some serious LEGO skills.”

Angie blinks slowly, eyebrows raised. Alex almost laughs – that, he thinks, she definitely got from her mother. The tell-tale, _explain yourself_  look. But it passes as they all shuffle through the front door.

He gets the kids to school earlier than usual and steps into his office just a few minutes after 9 a.m. Angelica’s already there, sitting in the chair next to Burr’s desk, sipping her morning latte and paging through a  _New Yorker_. Something truly must be in the air today, he thinks, if Angelica is willingly within five feet of Burr.

She looks up and cocks her head to one side. “Your hair is down.”

Alex stops in the doorway and touches the ends of his hair and, Jesus, he’s in desperate need of a trim. He shrugs. “Huh. Guess I forgot to pull it up.”

Burr looks up from where he’s scribbling on a legal pad, does a double take. “What the fuck.”

Angelica looks him over, eyes narrowing. “That’s actually not a bad look for you.”

Alex is scanning his desk for a forgotten hair tie, rubber band, anything, when Burr leans back in his chair, twirling his pen, studying him. “When have you ever forgotten to pull your hair up –?”

“OK, that’s enough of that,” Alex cuts him off, sliding into his chair and hiding behind the cubicle wall. “I didn’t realize I was going to get critiqued and psychoanalyzed for wearing my hair a little different today. Jesus Christ.”

Angelica shrugs and tosses the  _New Yorker_  back on Burr’s desk before circling around to Alex’s side of the cube. 

“You look handsome,” she says, reaching playfully for the back of his head. Alex twists away, glaring. “Anyway, I have interviews booked all day with prospective winter semester interns. Hopefully, I’ll return.”

“Godspeed,” Alex calls after her, firing up his laptop, his heart sinking a little when he recalls Jefferson’s words at the welcoming gala. Eventually, he thinks, he and Angelica are going to need to have a talk. He can’t imagine it’ll be pretty. 

He spends the morning answering neglected emails and puts in a call to Jefferson’s secretary. She shoots down every single date and time he suggests for their interview, tells Alex she’ll call back when his “busy schedule” has cleared, and hangs up. Alex can’t help but laugh at that – he knows Jefferson’s just trying to make his life hell, make him work for it. He’s never really been one to turn down the spotlight. 

He’s starting to feel restless when the receptionist brings George into the office around 11 a.m., dressed in a neat olive-gray suit with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm. He steps behind Alex’s chair first, not bothering to acknowledge Burr.

“Hey. Good morning,” Alex says, twisting around in his chair to look up at him. “We still on for lunch after your meeting?”

George smiles, shows his teeth a little. “Absolutely. Anywhere in mind? I’m not around Bryant Park too often.”

Alex opens his mouth to answer, but he’s distracted by the sound of Burr wheeling his chair back and jumping up from his desk, rounding the cubicle corner. His eyes dart back and forth between Alex and George. 

“Mr. Washington, so glad you could make it,” he interrupts with forced gusto, pointedly glaring at Alex as he steps between his chair and George. George steps back cautiously, eyes meeting Alex’s over Burr’s shoulder. He pulls a face, grinning when George has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling. 

Burr starts shepherding him toward the door. “Let me get you some coffee. We can sit down somewhere less distracting.”

Alex watches them until they’re down the hallway, out of sight. He decides today is the day he figures out what the fuck is going on between Burr and George. He has an idea, an inkling. And he doesn’t like it.

He kills time on the Internet, too distracted to tackle any actual work, until they return a little less than an hour later, Burr with a stack of copies clutched in one hand.

“ – So you think there’s enough evidence to move forward with a trial?”

“Well, we’ll know for sure on Thursday, but we are expecting the bloodstains on Conway’s shirt to match up with at least one of the victims. That, combined with the security footage we’re pulling from the bar, should be more than enough.” George shrugs. “Nevertheless, I’d mark your calendar for the first week of December, maybe the second. That’s what we’re aiming for.”  

Burr nods and scribbles a note on one of the copies. George turns to Alex. Smiles. “Ready?”

“You bet,” Alex says, shutting his laptop and ignoring Burr, even as he feels his eyes boring into him. It’s not really funny anymore – it’s just fucking weird. 

They agree on a sushi spot a couple blocks away, right across from the library. Alex leads him down the stairwell and onto the sidewalk, waiting for a swarm of chatty Italian tourists to pass before pointing him across the street.

“So – I don’t know what kind of magic you worked with those LEGOs last week, but Will is still talking about it,” Alex says, grinning over at him as they walk shoulder to shoulder. “Really, though. You were kind of a hit with them. I tried to recreate that pasta and Angie told me it wasn’t as good as yours.”

George snorts, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him just slightly over to one side as a man in a business suit shoves past them, yelling into his earpiece. George keeps his grip on his forearm a little longer than necessary, giving him a gentle squeeze before letting go. Alex’s heart leaps in his chest but George just keeps walking, seemingly unbothered. He wonders if he’s just the kind of guy who doesn’t think twice about a familiar brush of the fingertips or a guiding hand on a shoulder. And they are kind of friends now, right? They stop at an intersection, and Alex decides that now is as good a time to ask as any.

“You and Burr,” Alex says, watching the flashing red hand on the crosswalk sign. “You guys aren’t – you’ve never – ”

George flashes him a withering look and Alex groans, then laughs.

“OK – no. I have a legitimate reason for asking this. I mean, you saw how he acted today, right? Like all awkward and jumpy? He kind of lost his shit when I asked him for your email last week.”

“So your first thought is scorned ex-lover? Isn’t he married? To a woman?”

Alex laughs harder, realizing just how ridiculous it all sounds now, out loud. “Hey now, that doesn’t mean anything. And I don’t know what he gets up to in his free time, OK? But, seriously, what’s up?”

George still seems a bit taken aback by Alex’s assessment, but he shakes it off, nudging him forward when the crosswalk sign changes. “There’s not a whole lot to tell. It happened maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago? He’d just graduated from Columbia and interviewed for a junior associate position at a firm where, at the time, I was a partner. He had stellar references, some truly impressive internships on his CV, but we decided he wasn’t a good fit and never gave him an offer. When he asked why, I told him the truth.”

“Wait, seriously? I knew he was a Columbia grad but I always assumed it was from the School of Journalism. Why didn’t you hire him?”

George shrugs. “On paper, he was a great candidate. In the interview, he name dropped. Said everything we wanted to hear. I didn’t exactly get the feeling he wanted the position for the right reasons, or had anything particularly new to bring to the table. Anyhow, I think he worked at a competing firm for a while before throwing in the towel, but he never really let it go. Honestly, Alex, it’s not exactly a flattering story and he was probably just worried you’d find out.”

“…Which I just did,” Alex says. “I mean, it was fifteen years ago. I don’t care.”

George shrugs again as they fall into the line trailing outside of their restaurant. “Well, in your industry you don’t exactly want to be perceived as untrustworthy, do you?”

“True,” Alex says. And it makes sense, the more he thinks about it. Burr is an intensely private guy, has always had a bit of a competitive side that only seems to surface with Alex. Truthfully, Alex feels a little sorry for him. “Well, I’m not going to say anything about it.”

George nods. They stand in a comfortable silence for a moment and then George laughs quietly to himself, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you – Burr, for the record, is not even my type.”

“Oh?” Alex says, wiggling his eyebrows. George shoots him an intent look he can’t quite decode, but it makes Alex’s face heat up, just a bit. He’s glad he’s wearing his hair down - it covers the tips of his ears.

“You seem – it’s seems like you’re in high spirits today,” George says as they move up a couple spots in line. Alex cringes, the memories of the evening George babysat flooding back.

“Yeah. Sorry about the other night,” he mutters. “It comes and goes. Some days things feel OK, and it’s like the kids and I have created a new normal, you know? And then other days – most days, honestly – I feel the same way I did the afternoon I got that phone call. There’s no way to really predict it. It just is what it is.”

“I can only imagine,” George says. “And, Alex. You don’t have to apologize.”

No judgment, no forced compassion. Alex swears his guard is being stripped away, piece by piece. They may have only met last week, but he can feel something real building between them – a sense of trust, the realization that he could probably ask George for anything, and he’d go out of his way to make it happen, no questions asked.  

They wait a few minutes longer before a waiter comes out to seat them at a table tucked away in a far corner of the restaurant. They order a plate of baked crab rolls to share and George orders the steamed Chilean sea bass, Alex following his lead and trying not to think too much about what the bill will look like by the end of their meal. They talk – Alex, about his ongoing projects. Chasing down Jefferson for his profile. He’s surprised when George says he knows of Jefferson, and then realizes he shouldn’t be when George mentions he’s a Virginia native himself. Old money, he knows, overlaps in all sorts of mysterious ways. George fills him in on his murder case - a triple homicide at some bar in East Harlem, gang related, the NYPD is sure, though there’s only one suspect in custody. 

It’s not exactly the most thrilling conversation, but it’s comfortable. It’s company. George watches him - hangs on to his every word when he speaks. Alex thinks that, maybe, George stares a bit longer than needed when he first pops a crab roll into his mouth, making a content little sound in the back of his throat. 

Their sea bass is on its way out of the kitchen when Alex’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He doesn’t ever send his calls to voicemail, not anymore, so he mutters a quick apology to George and fishes it out of his pocket. Berkeley Carroll School’s number pops up on the caller ID. 

“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath, heart pounding as he accepts the call. “Hello?”

_“Mr. Hamilton? This is Berkeley Carroll, calling about your daughter.”_

“Yeah, I know,” he snaps. George is waving down their waiter, motioning for the check and a couple to-go boxes. “What’s going on?”

_“Angie had an - altercation - today with another female student. We’d like you to come to the school as soon as possible. We have her here in the main office.”_

Alex pinches down hard on the bridge of his nose, struggling to find the right words. There must be some sort of mistake, he decides. That doesn’t sound like his daughter. He sees some of his own fire in her, sure, but she’s always been kind and mindful. She thinks things through before she acts. He _knows_ her.   

“Is she - is she OK?” he asks after a moment, voice cracking. The waiter returns with their boxes and the bill. George slips him his credit card.

_“Yes, Mr. Hamilton. She’s fine. We’ll see you soon.”_

 Alex hangs up and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to process.

“Angie got into a fight at school,” he says, hating how strained and thin his voice sounds.

George’s hand tenses around his fork and Alex shakes his head, quickly reassuring him.

 “She’s OK, but I - I have to go.”

George climbs to his feet and collects their leftovers off the table. Alex stands slowly a few second later, tugging on his jacket, and he’s hit with a realization that he doesn’t want to do this alone - doesn’t know if he  _can_  do this by himself. Angie’s never been in trouble - grounded a couple times for picking on William, sure, but that’s it. There’s no telling what he’s about to walk into and there’s a growing fear, in the darkest corner of his mind, that this is somehow his fault.

He looks at George, swallows.

“Would you come with me?” he asks, hoping it doesn’t come off as too pathetic, too needy.

George doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. Let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s such a good kid. I don’t get it, she’s never done anything wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pinterest Board](https://www.pinterest.com/WWA_WWS/).
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

“She’s such a good kid. I don’t get it, she’s never done anything wrong.”

Alex takes the concrete steps leading up to the school’s front entrance two at a time and waits for George at the top. He’s still dutifully carrying their to-go containers. If George hadn’t paid for their lunch himself, Alex probably would’ve told him to throw out the boxes by now. The sea bass isn’t going to reheat well, the sushi rolls will likely fall apart by the time he gets home. What a waste of money. 

“You’ve only heard one side of this story,” George says, joining Alex at the top of the stairs. “And not much of it. Just remember to hear her out. If she sees that you’re upset, too, it’s not going to make any of this easier.”

He’s right, but all Alex can think about is how disappointed Eliza would be. 

Alex moves to open the door but stops, hand resting on the knob. He looks up at George, swallows hard. “Thanks for coming all the way out here with me and kind of talking me through this. I just - this is kind of something my wife would’ve taken care of, you know? She really knew how to put the fear of God in our kids, when she needed to.”

George shakes his head. “There’s no need to thank me.”

“Well, I am anyway,” Alex says, shooting him a tight smile. “Let’s go inside.”

Alex leads him down the hall – empty, aside from a couple kids sneaking out of class. George agrees to wait outside the main office, giving Alex’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze before he slips through the office door.

The secretary – a shrewd, frail woman who Alex is certain should’ve retired years ago - looks up from her computer, giving Alex a cutting look that almost makes him feel like  _he’s_  the one in trouble. 

“Your daughter shoved another student today, Mr. Hamilton,” she says. And then, kinder, “Given the circumstances we’re letting her off with a warning. But any future infractions will result in a suspension.”

Alex nearly rolls his eyes, but resists – the bubbling fear in the bottom of his stomach overpowering any desire to challenge this woman. “OK, enough. Let me see her.”

Angie’s waiting in one of the back offices – physically unharmed, thank God, but sniffling with red-rimmed eyes and black mascara smudged under her eyelashes and across her cheekbone. Her face flushes pink when she looks up at Alex. When did she start wearing makeup?

“Daddy,” she says, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry.”

“Angel. What – ?”

“Some bitch in my – ”

“ _Language,”_ Alex says, stern.

Angie lets out an annoyed huff. “Some  _girl_  in my Spanish class saw that picture of mom and Philip – the one that Aunt Angelica had framed for my locker. She said it was ‘childish.’ So, I pushed her. She’s  _fine,_ daddy, I barely even touched her.”

Alex slides his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut, groaning. “Angel, baby, you can’t…”

He trails off, a nagging voice in his head reminding him that this was Eliza’s forte, never his. He doesn’t know what to say to make this better, to drive whatever point he needs to make home. He should know by now, from years of watching his wife. He can’t really use the excuse of having a shitty dad or a dead mom for parents – not anymore. 

“Listen, you know if there were no consequences I’d have your back on this,” he says. “That girl sounds like a fu- she sounds like a  _delight_. But you’re at school and you’re my daughter and this can’t happen, OK? What if she’d hit you back?”

Angie blinks a couple times, fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I got so mad, I didn’t even think about it. And then the principal told her – about what happened. And she was really sorry, but it was just embarrassing and I – yeah.”

He pulls a chair up next to her and sits down with a sigh, taking her hand in his. She squeezes. 

“You’re not in trouble,” he says, wiping the mascara off her face with the pad of his thumb. “Just – you really freaked me out. Do you know how scary it was, getting that phone call? You and Will – you’re all I have.”

Angie shakes her head, then drops it against his shoulder. “Dad, you’re being a little dramatic.”

He cradles the side of her head and holds her like that for a minute or two, doesn’t bother to explain what she can’t fully understand.

“I brought Mr. Washington with me,” he says, breaking the growing silence. She pulls back and looks up at him, brow creased. “We were having our lunch when the school called, Angie.”

Angie’s cheeks turn pink again and Alex cringes. She probably wasn’t expecting an audience.

 “Hey,” he says. “If you’re embarrassed, I can tell him – ”

“No, it’s fine,” Angie says, sitting up straight and running the heel of her hand across her cheek, brushing away the last of her drying tears. And then she smiles. It’s slight and quick, but he notices a light resurfacing in her eyes. “I’m glad you have a friend.”

Alex snorts. He’s pretty sure he’d be offended if it wasn’t coming from his daughter. And, OK, maybe he still is a little miffed. “I have friends.”

“Daddy, Aunt Angelica doesn’t count.”

They rejoin George outside the office, and Alex notices the to-go boxes have disappeared. 

“The fish smelled horrible,” he says regretfully, shrugging. His eyes flash from Angie to Alex, and Alex shakes his head quickly and silently, a promise to explain later.

“I think I’m going to go ahead and take her home,” he says, resting a hand on Angie’s shoulder. And, he’s not certain, but he thinks he sees George’s face drop, just marginally.  _Well, you did have him come all the way out to Brooklyn for virtually nothing, asshole, of course he’s annoyed._

And then, his stomach growls. Rather loudly.

Angie looks at George, and then back to Alex, guilty. “You guys didn’t get to eat much of your lunch, did you?”

 —

Angie picks a greasy spoon a couple blocks from the school. It’s a traditional diner setup - red vinyl booths, black and white tiling, sticky laminated menus, the distinct scent of fried food in the air.

And George looks comically out of place, Alex decides. Angie has the benefit of being young, he has the advantage of, well, looking the way he does. And then there’s George, in his custom-tailored Canali suit, giving the booth a once-over before sliding in.

He thinks it’s about to get worse when their waiter brings out his spinach salad which, Alex notes with some amusement, completely lacks spinach. But George, to his credit, doesn’t complain. Just calmly picks out the cherry tomatoes.

“Oh my God,” Alex says, watching him scrape the ranch dressing off a browning lettuce leaf. “You’re a snob. This is amazing.”

George looks at him miserably. “This just isn’t what I’d usually eat.”

“He can’t be worse than mom,” Angie says duly, squeezing ketchup onto her hash browns before passing the bottle over to Alex, for his eggs. “Remember the time she found lipstick on her water glass at that place in Virginia Beach?”

“That, I try to forget,” Alex says. He glances back at George. “Seriously, though. You’re not going to be full off of that. Do you want some of my pancakes? They’re chocolate chip.”

George eyes his plate hesitantly. Sighs, and nods. “I’ll take one. Sure.”

They end up spending the next hour or so at the diner, and Alex is pleased to see that George and Angie seem to get along – she asks questions about his job, his education (University of Virginia for his bachelor’s, Columbia for his law degree, of course), seems to hang on to his every word when he discusses the ins and outs of applying to schools and LSAT prep (“You’ll want to take classes with an actual instructor. Don’t try to learn just from a book.”) And, regardless of the circumstances that brought the three of them together, Alex considers it to be a reasonably fun afternoon.

It’s 2:45 p.m. by the time they wrap up. George pays, despite Alex’s protests, and offers to walk with them over to Will’s elementary school before heading back to Manhattan. George has proven time and time again he likes them – likes Alex, likes his kids, enjoys spending time with them – so Alex isn’t sure why his kindness, his gestures, are still catching him by surprise. It just makes the world feel a little off-kilter – someone other than Angelica, showing an interest in making them  _happy_.

Will’s face lights up when he sees George, greeting him with a hug George has to crouch down to return. 

“Is Mr. Washington watching us tonight?” Will demands, spinning around to Alex, a bundle of energy. “Can he? Please?”

Alex shakes his head and shoots George a quick smile. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m sure he wants to head home now.”

George goes to answer, but then Will is whirling back around to face him, pouting. “You don’t even want to stay for movie night?!”

Fuck. Right. Monday movie night. A tradition Eliza coined – a well-intentioned effort to “start the week off on the right foot,” she’d said. A tradition Alex had promised the kids he’d bring back, though he’d entirely forgotten about it until, well, right now. Angie shifts uneasily at his side, her eyes falling down to stare at her shoes.

George notices. He looks from Angie to Alex, sucks in his bottom lip, and then shakes his head.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

Will frowns up at him, puzzled, and Alex sighs – doesn’t want to have to try and explain without upsetting his son, but then Angie clears her throat and looks back up with a bold smile. It’s not entirely insincere, though Alex senses she’s putting on a brave face.

“You should come to movie night,” she says cheerfully, looking back at Alex and shrugging a shoulder. “It would be fun.”

Will gives George an expectant look. “We’re watching  _The Princess Bride_.”

“Still,” Alex says uncertainly. “I’ve kept Mr. Washington busy most of the day. I don’t know if he...” he trails off and glances back at George. “I mean, if you want to, you’re more than welcome.”

George puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, his eyes still on Alex’s. “I’d love to come to movie night. I haven’t seen  _The Princess Bride_  in years.”

They head back in the direction of the house – it’s a bit of a walk, but the weather is still crisp and clean, just the slightest hint of winter sneaking into the air. Alex makes a mental note that it’s nearly time to buy the kids new winter coats and boots. Will will have grown out of his by now; Angie will ask for whatever the latest style is – he’ll send her shopping with Angelica and Peggy, for that.

“Alex?” George says as they round the corner of his block, the kids several feet ahead, distracting themselves by stepping on whatever crunchy autumn leaves they find on the sidewalk. George steps a little closer to him, lowering his voice. Their shoulders brush. “Angie didn’t seem entirely thrilled, about this.”

Alex sighs. “This used to be kind of a family thing, with my wife. Will doesn’t really get what that means, you know? I think she was just taken aback when he asked. But she invited you. It’s fine.”

George doesn’t seem entirely convinced but he nods, anyway. “I’m enjoying spending time with them. With you, too. I don’t want it to be…overwhelming.”

“It’s not,” Alex promises, pulling out his house keys. “This has – it’s all been really good for us, I think.”

Alex’s movie night turns out to be a little different from Eliza’s. Instead of fruit salad and pita and hummus, he orders two large pizzas and pops a couple bowls of theater-style popcorn. He doesn’t miss the way George tries to discreetly blot the grease off his slice of cheese pizza with a napkin as they sit together on the couch together, Alex nodding off near the end of the movie. It’s only about 6 p.m. by the time the credits roll up the screen, but the day is just starting to catch up to him – and it seems to be about the same for the kids, too. Will is asleep on the floor, drooling on an accent pillow, and Angie is stretching lean arms above her head, yawning.

“Why don’t you get Will up to his room while I clean up?” Alex tells Angie, straightening up and climbing off the couch.

Angie shakes Will’s shoulder until he wakes up and they disappear upstairs, leaving Alex to collect the pizza boxes. He places them on top of the trash bin; George rinses butter out of the popcorn bowls.

“Eliza would flip, if she knew what I was feeding the kids,” Alex says after they’ve finished tidying up. He pulls two beers out of the fridge and holds one up for George to examine. “You like IPAs?”

“Of course,” George says. Alex pries the cap off, sets it on the kitchen island, and George steps a little closer to grab it. “Was she a bit of a health nut?”

“To a fault,” Alex smiles. “Hot yoga twice a week, bringing home food with names I could barely pronounce. I used to have to take Philip and Angie out a lot, just so they could experience normal food like hamburgers and potato chips, because that was the kind of shit she didn’t like in the house – mostly because I think she knew she’d be tempted herself, you know? She could make her own vegan banana ice cream. She was actually, uh, getting ready for the Frozen Penguin Half Marathon when she passed. Putting her training schedule in our Google calendar just a few hours before it – before it happened.”

George looks at him steadily, and Alex decides he feels safe with him – OK with sharing this part of his life, even though he’s not sure if he should, yet. It’s a lot for most people to process. He knows this. That, from the outside looking in, he looks broken and irreparable.

George makes him feel he can rise above this shitty, shitty hand he’s been dealt.

He looks down at his feet and swallows. “They were on the southbound 1 train – Eliza and Philip. He was a first year at Columbia and she wrapped up her Social Welfare Policy class early so they could both come down to grab lunch with me. We didn’t usually do that – lunch during the week. But it was one of those rare days where our schedules kind of lined up and we wanted to make it happen. I hadn’t really spent much time with Philip since he came home for Christmas – you know how it is. He just wanted to chase girls and hang out with his friends. The train was going through Columbus Circle. They were – they were in the ninth car and the last two cars just…they were dragged a couple hundred feet before their car split open. I think, very early, before all the details came out, everyone initially thought it was some sort of terrorist attack, because that’s where everyone’s mind goes. But no – it was just a busted part, something that got skipped during routine maintenance. Human error.”

George doesn’t say anything, just nods through it, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle. So Alex keeps going.

“When I got the call, I was numb for days. And then it got to the point where it felt like my kids were the only thing keeping me alive. During the worst times, I thought maybe they’d just be better off with my sister-in-law. I’ve had a pretty fucked up life, George. I didn’t grow up like Eliza. I have thick skin. But when that happened? It was indescribable. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. And for the longest time all I could think about was Will – having to grow up with barely any memory of her, and what that might do to him.”

He realizes he’s crying now, feels a warm tear trickle down to his chin. He hastily wipes it away – hasn’t cried in front of anyone in months. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine.”

Alex’s chest tightens when George’s hand moves to rest over his on the kitchen island. It’s not overtly flirtatious, doesn’t carry any suggestion. His hand is just there – darker and much larger than his own, a gentle pressure over his knuckles.

“When we found out Eliza was pregnant with Philip, I didn’t know what we were going to do,” he says. “We were only 22 – it wasn’t a shotgun wedding, just a mishap, probably during the honeymoon or something, and she was elated. I couldn’t, not for the life of me, figure out why she was ready to have a baby with someone who had no business being a father. But then he was born and everything changed the second he was put in my arms. And I knew that, if I had Eliza with me, things would be OK. And they were. And now…”

 He feels George squeeze his hand, hard, and that’s when the tears start to flow in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quietly gasping for a breath of air, his vision blurring. “I just haven’t cried in a long, long time.”

George lets go of his hand to grab a box of tissues off the wine cabinet, nudging them over to Alex across the island. Alex laughs and mutters a _thank you_ , plucking a tissue out of the box, turning away to wipe under his eyes.

“Crying isn’t a bad thing,” George says finally, his own voice a little hoarse. “We’re the only species that produces tears based off of what we’re feeling.”

Alex blinks up at him and laughs again, then sniffs. “Is this more of your weird zoo knowledge?”

George rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Darwin’s whole theory about the elephants was never quite proven.”

Alex smiles slowly and finishes off his beer. George hesitates a moment, then says, “For the record, I think you’re doing a fine job with your kids.”

“You met me last week.”

George shrugs. “I don’t have to know someone for very long to know their heart is in the right place. That being said, Alex – I know things have been difficult, with your job and your sister-in-law’s schedule. And, if it’s something you’re comfortable with – my schedule can be very flexible, especially the days I’m not in court. I can’t make any promises in regards to my availability, but if you ever need someone to help with the kids – I want you to feel like you can call me.”

Alex has to laugh at that. “I called you the day after we met. I’m pretty sure I trust you.”

“I know. I just don’t want to overstep.”

“You’re not,” Alex says. “And, yeah. I know both my schedule and Angelica’s is about to get insane, with the holidays right around the corner. So, I might take you up on that. “

“OK,” George smiles. “Just text me.”

Alex smiles back.

“OK.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They decide to meet at the Starbucks on the corner of 114th and Broadway. He buys a caffè Americano for himself, a caffè latte for John. Their usual order. And he waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pinterest Board](https://www.pinterest.com/WWA_WWS/).
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

_Columbia University, 1995_

They decide to meet at the Starbucks on the corner of 114th and Broadway. He buys a caffè Americano for himself, a caffè latte for John. Their usual order. And he waits.

He wonders if this is what an out of body experience feels like. He’s mulled these words over for the past three weeks or so, but finally hearing them out loud? He can scarcely believe they’re coming from his own lips.

“Eliza and I really want you to be our best man.”

John stares for a beat, mid-sip. His hand tenses around his paper coffee cup, fingers digging into the sleeve.

“Is this a fucking _joke?”_

Alex had anticipated this reaction — he _told_ Eliza it would happen like this. He feels a little pathetic even asking John. He has other options. Mulligan. Peggy’s boyfriend. They met at Christmas. He seemed nice.

OK, so he has _one_ other option. But that doesn’t take away from the simple fact John is the only person he wants standing at his side when he marries Eliza.

“I’m not joking,” Alex says cautiously. “You’re my best friend. I know it’s kind of…weird. But, come on, you had to see this coming.”

“ _Weird?_ ” John says, eyes widening. “‘Weird’ is a huge god damn understatement. Let’s go through this whole fucked up timeline, Alex.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “Uh, OK, you dated me for a year and three months. Broke up with me because things were getting ‘too serious’ and you thought we were ‘better off as friends.’ Continued to fuck me, even after meeting your bride-to-be — who you proposed to within six months of meeting her. So, yeah, sorry I’m not exactly jumping for joy here.”

Alex shakes his head, feeling his own blood start to boil. John’s not wrong, but he’s not about to let him twist the story. “It’s not like Eliza doesn’t know — it was before we decided to stop seeing other people. She doesn’t _care_ , John. She really likes you.”

John laughs, strained and muffled. He rips his eyes away from Alex’s and stares out the window instead. “Yeah, she ‘really likes me’ because she barely considers me an ex, right? Because I’m a guy?”

“That’s not even remotely close to the truth and you know it. And, by the way, that’s really fucking rich coming from the guy who told me I was a ‘phase’ — a piece in some game to piss off her bougie parents. Or, the guy who inadvertently called me a gold digger —  ”

“OK,” John cuts him off. Alex is more than ready to dig out more examples of the way John has belittled and undercut him over the course of the last six months. But Alex can see, in the way he slouches as the tension lifts from his shoulders, that he’s simmering down. “That’s fair. I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks. He can’t help it — he’s a little shocked. “You are?”

“Yeah,” John shrugs, absently picking at his coffee lid. “I’ve been really — I’ve been hard on you. But you get that it’s only because I care, right?”

“John—”

“What? It’s true. I was with you for over a year, and I’ve known you even longer. I’m just protective.”

“Yeah, well.” Alex finishes his last sip of coffee, wrinkling his nose when he finds grounds at the bottom. “I can take care of myself.”

A silence grows between them — not as comfortable as it used to be. Alex has his political theory seminar at 11:30 a.m. so they’ll need to wrap this up soon, though he doesn’t want to have to be the one to walk away.

“I’m not going to have anyone at my own wedding,” Alex says after a moment, just above a whisper. “It’s going to look pathetic — what, with how big Eliza’s family is. It would mean a lot to me. If you were there.”

John breaks eye contact, swallows, and Alex already knows what’s coming. “I’m sorry, Alex. I love you, but I can’t do this. It’s just too much. You have to understand. But you should ask Hercules. You know he’d love it.”

He doesn’t wait for Alex to respond; just gives him a quick nod and scoops his trash off the table. Alex watches him step out of the cafe and disappear into the growing crowd of students, head down.

So Alex sits up a little straighter, determined to let this roll right off his shoulders — even as his mind races a mile a minute and his throat tightens, an involuntary response to the resurfacing of feelings he’s tried so hard to push away.

On to plan B, then.

 

_Albany, 1996_

So Alex asks Mulligan. They’re standing in the groom’s suite, forty-five minutes before the ceremony. Alex is a bundle of nervous energy, even after polishing off the emergency flask of scotch Mulligan cleverly stashed in his pocket. He’s fixing Alex’s bowtie in the mirror, straightening out his tuxedo (jet black — classic) lapels, when he puts two broad hands on Alex’s shoulders and squeezes.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Alex meets his eyes in the mirror. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Well. I think you’ll like this one.” And he crosses over to the suite’s main door, pulling John in from the hallway.

He’s dressed in is own perfectly-fitted tux, curly hair pulled back neatly and looking sick with worry. Alex feels everything all at once — confusion, panic, frustration — it all washes over him like a tidal wave until he doesn’t really feel anything anymore. He just deflates.

“I brought him as my plus one,” Mulligan says, pulling John further into the room, keeping a grip on his forearm, like he might try to bolt. “It didn’t screw up the guest list.”

“You can tell me to fuck off if you want,” John says quickly. “I know this is kind of nuts, bordering on rude, but I — I changed my mind. Sorry.”

“John, I’m getting married in, like, half an hour.” But even as Alex says it he’s charging forward and into John’s arms, pulling him tight against his chest. John inhales, sharp in his ear as hooks his chin over Alex’s shoulder and buries his nose in his neck.

And then Mulligan is towering over them, wrapping long, strong arms around both of their shoulders and bringing them in for a bear hug.

“For the record, I’m OK with being demoted to the flower girl,” Mulligan says.

Alex laughs and drops his forehead against Mulligan’s chest. John grins at him.

“OK,” John says. “Let’s make an honest man out of you.”

—

_Present Day_

Alex feels the tension in the newsroom the moment he steps out of the elevator — it’s clear from the way most of the employees on the main floor are huddled around desks, speaking in hushed voices to one another. Alex is tempted to just turn around, take the train back to Brooklyn and climb under his bedsheets. He’s really not in the mood for the workplace drama the _National Gazette_ seems to sustain itself on.

“This is it,” Angelica says, calm and definitive, once he’s in their shared office. Burr is standing by her desk. He shoots Alex a vaguely panicked look. “This is the day I turn in my resignation and live off my trust fund, because this is not a rewarding job. This is the worst job, and I’m done.”

Alex glances back longingly at the door, sighs, and decides he should stay, probably. “What the hell is going on?”

“One of the interns fabricated a story,” Burr says quietly. Alex raises an eyebrow. “That feature about the student at NYU who channeled the pain of losing her father to thyroid cancer into her sculptures or whatever? She doesn’t actually exist. NYU saw the article and flipped.”

Alex knows it’s wrong — knows it’s a serious fucking problem —  but he can’t help but laugh, even as Burr and Angelica stare him down. “The one that ran on A5 last Thursday? OK — that’s really bad. But, consider this — we have a rogue intern who’s gonna get kicked out of her program and never work in this industry again which, great, she deserves it. But what about, I don’t know, _our entire team of professional fact checkers_ who neglected to do their jobs?”

“Yeah that’s crossed my mind a couple times,” Angelica says bitterly, hoisting herself out of her chair and slamming her MacBook shut. “Anyway, it’s a wonderful fucking day to be in charge of the internship program. I’m obviously not going to be around much today, and I’m going to miss dinner tonight. Paine and I are meeting after hours to figure out the best way to douse this fire.”

Alex frowns. “But George is coming over tonight. I really wanted you guys to meet.”

Burr’s eye twitches. He turns and heads back over to his desk without saying a word. Angelica doesn’t seem to notice — she’s already throwing her laptop into her tote bag and tugging the strap over her shoulder.

“I know — sorry. I really want to meet him too and finally see what all the fuss is about,” she shoots him a smile and flicks a curl out of her eyes. “Will seems to be very impressed by him.”

Alex shrugs. “Yeah, well, Will is impressed by anyone over 5’10” so the bar’s not set very high. Literally.”

He cracks a smile and Angelica shoots him a knowing look. In the two weeks since George offered a helping hand, he hasn’t had much time to thoroughly discuss it with Angelica. But if she feels threatened by someone else stepping into her role, she doesn’t show it.

Alex can sense she has questions, though. Questions he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to answer — maybe even questions she’s not ready to ask.

He clears his throat, pushing past the moment. “But in all seriousness, yeah, he’s good with the kids. It’s been nice for them to socialize with someone outside of the family, you know? Someone kind of — removed from everything that’s happened.”

“It’s good for you, too,” Angelica says, already halfway out the door. “Have fun tonight.”

Burr is quiet on his end of the office, the tension thick in the air with Angelica gone. Alex realizes with resigned dismay that they’re going to have to talk. That, as borderline amusing as it is, it’s not fair to leave him anxious and wondering what Alex knows. Alex says a quick prayer to a God he doesn’t believe in and steps around to Burr’s desk.

“So you and George Washington,” Burr says, not looking up from his laptop. “Are, what? Friends?”

Alex bulldozes right through that conversation. “He told me.” And then, when Burr looks up at him with building horror, “Look, you don’t have to worry about it, OK? He said it was like 15 years ago, right? Your first career crashed and burned, big deal. I’m assuming I’m the one you didn’t want knowing, but I do now. Sorry. It literally hasn’t changed my opinion of you. I still think you’re a pain in the ass. But a very talented one.”

Burr still looks startled, unconvinced. “Why did he tell you?”

“After he stopped by the office a few weeks ago, I asked why you were acting so fucking awkward,” Alex says, shrugging. “So he had to tell me the truth, or else I was just going to keep on thinking you guys were having a horribly unethical affair.”

Burr drops his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“So now that that’s out in the open — are we good?”

Burr hesitates, then nods. “Can you just…not tell anyone else? Even Angelica?”

“As long as you didn’t fabricate your J-School records or something, I don’t see why it ever needs to be brought up again.”

Burr huffs out a sigh of relief and smiles up at him, just slightly. “OK, then. We’re good. Thank you, Alexander.”

Alex goes back to his desk, mentally preparing himself for another monotonous day of editing copy and Jefferson’s never-ending scheduling conflicts. A few minutes later, he hears Burr chuckling to himself.

“What?”

“An affair with George Washington,” Burr repeats, laughing harder. Alex can’t help but join in.

—

George arrives right at 6 p.m., dressed down in a pair of maroon slacks and a sweater. Alex greets him in the kitchen with a wide grin and two chilled bottles of Stag.

“I never make pepperpot stew without drinking this,” Alex says, pouring both bottles into glasses and passing one to George. He takes a sip and nods his approval.

“It’s good.”

“Great — so, I’ve already done most of the work here,” he says, waving a hand around the kitchen. “The rice is in the cooker and I’ve got the beef, onions and the other shit boiling. In, like, ten minutes we’ll bring it down to a simmer and throw in the potatoes and coconut milk. I’ve got the kids finishing their homework upstairs but they’ll be down in a few minutes. Sound good?”

George nods, glancing over at the covered pot crackling on the stove. “Where’d you learn how to make this?”

Alex shrugs and sets his laptop down on the kitchen island, pulling up Apple Music. He doesn’t really care to get into much about his childhood today, wants to give George a little more time to process the other shit he’s thrown at him before diving into yet another traumatizing story. “Just something my mom would make while I was growing up. Hey — any music requests while we wait?”

“Uh, sure,” George says, eyes flickering out to the living room. “Where do you keep your CDs?”

Alex sucks in his lips stifles a laugh. He can’t judge, though, because if it weren’t for Angie — or Philip — he thinks he’d be fairly out of touch, too. He decides it’s endearing. Cute, even.

“I can just stream it from my laptop,” Alex says, taking a wild guess and tapping a pre-made playlist titled “ _Sweet and Stylish Dinner Music: Soak up some sophisticated tunes to make your suppertime sing._ ” Seems fitting enough.

He switches over to his email window to see if Jefferson’s assistant has granted him a response — gets his hopes up when he sees an unread message at the top of his inbox and doesn’t even look twice at the email address until the message is pulled up in front of him.

His glass slips from his hand and shatters on the kitchen tiles. George turns back around, startled, his eyes darting to the floor.

“Alex!” he says, grabbing his arm to keep him still. “Jesus, watch your feet.”

“Sorry,” Alex says distantly, reading and rereading the email as George makes a beeline for the hall closet, grabbing a broom. 

 

 **_From:_ ** **_jlaurens76@gmail.com_ **

**_To:_ ** **_a.hamilton@nationalgazette.com_ **

**_Subject: Meeting up?_ **

_Hey man, it’s been a while._

_I’m going to be visiting some friends in the city before I head down to Charleston for the holidays. My hotel’s over in Koreatown if you want to get dinner and a drink or something?_

_I’d really love to catch up if you’re down with it. MSF is sending me back to Burkina Faso in January._

_Yours,_

_John_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

Alex changes three times before he decides on a basic white tee, a gray cashmere cardigan and a pair of jeans — it’s neat and classic, doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. He wears his hair down, the same way he’s been wearing it for a few weeks now. Combed back, just brushing his shoulders. He even got it trimmed, finally, with this new look in mind.

“Does he know…?” George asks. They’re waiting for John to arrive – George is seated on the sectional, Alex is pacing the floor in front of him. Angie and Will, thankfully, are distracted in the dining room, eating last night’s reheated chicken parmigiana.

“He sent me one of those cheesy sympathy cards a month after it happened,” Alex explains bitterly, wringing his hands. His eyes dart to George’s. He stops pacing for a moment. “I mean, he’s been overseas with Doctors Without Borders for a couple years now. We fell out of touch long before then. Still — don’t you think he would’ve at least called by now?”

George shrugs and Alex squeezes his eyes shut, sighs. It’s not fair to dump all of this on him, he knows that. George doesn’t know John, and Alex can already tell he’s growing weary of the overanalyzing and fretting. George touches the couch cushion next to him.

“Sit down, please. Stop pacing.”

Alex joins him on the couch and George lays a comforting hand on his knee as he sits, just briefly, before pulling back and resting his hand on his own leg. It sends an unexpected jolt of electricity through Alex’s body.

“You wouldn’t have agreed to see him tonight if you didn’t want to hear what he has to say, right?” George says. “It’s only dinner. And if you two were as close as you say, he’s here with good intentions.”

Alex swallows thickly with the realization it’s time to come clean — he doesn’t even know why he’s withheld it at all. It’s not a part of him he’s ever tried to keep from anyone. Telling George, though, carries a sort of weight — significance he can’t quite put his finger on. And, for years now, it’s never been something he’s needed to tell.

“We were very close,” he says, watching George’s face carefully. “We actually — we dated for a little over a year before I met Eliza.”

George’s eyes widen, barely, and Alex nervously shifts his weight on the couch. He remembers what George said about Burr — _“Isn’t he married? To a woman?” —_ and starts to feel a bit sick to his stomach.

“You dated?” George repeats. Alex nods. He can’t get a read on his tone, but it strikes him as impassive. He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Yeah. I mean, I’d been with other guys — and girls — before but he was my first, what I would consider serious, relationship.” And then, because he can’t help but say it, just to clear the air, “Please tell me you’re not one of those ‘pick one’ guys.”

George frowns deeply, clearly thrown off guard. “No, not at all, I — it’s just that you apologized for making an assumption about me, and now I guess I need to do the same. Sorry.”

“To be fair, it’s an easy assumption to make,” Alex admits with a shrug. “I mean, it’s been over two decades — I don’t feel that way about him anymore. I mean, shit, I’ve gone months without even _thinking_ about him. But you get why that makes things a little weird, right?”

Right on cue, there’s a light rap on his front door — five quick, succinct knocks. He feels George’s eyes follow him as he makes his way across the room. Each step feels heavy, like he’s underwater.

They haven’t seen each other in thirteen years — not since he took that job in Guerrero. Yet, when he opens up the front door, it’s a little like traveling back in time. John doesn’t look much different, always has had a sort of youthfulness about him. His figure is still compact and athletic, but his eyes are tired, and there’s just a hint of smile lines at the corners of his mouth. His hair — that’s still dark, no hint of gray. Not like Alex’s own.

A hug, in this moment, doesn’t feel appropriate. So Alex just opens the door wide and steps aside, welcoming him into the living room. George rises from the couch.

“Alex,” John says, finally, running his palms down the front of his pants. “It’s — it’s really good to see you again. Your house — it’s amazing.”

Alex nods, searching for his own words, when George appears at his side, smiling almost serenely. It helps ease the tension, now thick in the air.

“John, this is my friend, George,” he says, grabbing George’s arm and nudging him forward. “He’s watching the kids.” They shake hands and John’s eyes flicker to his, questioning. But Alex ignores him, instead calling Angie and Will out to the living room.

The whole affair turns out to be painfully awkward. John remembers meeting Angie as a two-year-old and tells her as much while Will shyly stands behind George’s leg. After a few minutes, Alex finally ushers him out the front door and down the porch steps. The fresh air helps, makes his brain feel a little less muddy. John is quiet as they step onto the sidewalk, clearly searching for a conversation starter. Alex has never enjoyed lengthy silences – especially not awkward ones – so he rattles on about the neighborhood while John pulls the Uber app up on his phone.

They decide not to go into the city and instead head into Williamsburg. If Alex ends up wanting to leave, he doesn’t want to be too far from home. He lets John pick the restaurant, a Cuban one — all fake, rubber palm trees and burgundy walls, a live band holed away in the corner. They order, sit in more silence for a moment, and then John looks up from the beer menu.

“She looks exactly like her, you know,” he says quietly. “Angie, I mean.”

Alex sees red. “So you’re just going to go right into it like that — ”

“Alex, I’m sorry,” John says, firm. “I know I fucked up. That’s why I’m here now.”

“You were my best friend, my best man, and you sent me a _Hallmark_ _card_.”

John tears his eyes away and stares at the band instead. “I didn’t even hear about the accident until a week or two after it happened. I mean, I was in fucking West Africa. By the time I even had a chance to call it didn’t — it didn’t feel right. What was I supposed to say to you? I mean, we exchanged Christmas cards and an email every now and then. It’s not exactly the way it used to be, Alex. And isn’t this better? In person?”

“Almost ten months later?”

“Alex,” John says carefully, looking at him now. “I know you’re angry. But I’m here now. The whole ‘visiting friends before going to Charleston’ thing I wrote in the email? Not true. I came here for you, I just didn’t want to say so ‘cause it’d be embarrassing if you shot me down. So can you please at least consider letting me off the hook? I got here as soon as I could.”

Alex runs both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t think he’s quite ready to forgive, though he knows John has a point — knows Burkina Faso isn’t exactly the next state over. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he also knows it took a lot of guts on John’s part to even follow through with meeting up. So he looks John in the eye and gives him a tight nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “OK.”

John relaxes a little. “I can’t even begin to understand what this has been like for you and your kids,” he says. “And Angelica and Peg?”

He gives John the standard response. He’s said it a hundred times by now. “Some days are better than others. Angelica’s been there for us since day one, and Peggy’s really leaned on her, too. She’s kind of the thing that’s been keeping us all on our feet, in a way.”

“Sounds like her,” John says. They talk a while longer — about the funeral, the lawsuit against the MTA that seems to be fizzling out, the scholarship Columbia’s organizing in Eliza and Philip’s memory. Eventually, Alex loses steam and grows silent. John’s face twists into a grimace.

“Hey, is this even something you want to talk about?” he asks. “I mean, we can, but you’ve probably hashed this out with like a million different people… ”

Alex shrugs. “I kind of have, yeah. I mean, we’re all just trying to carry on and do our best right now. The holidays are going to be…they’re going to be pretty rough. But, honestly? I’d rather hear more about what you’re up to.”

They order a couple pitchers of beer and John dives right into his work in Burkina Faso (“They keep stationing me there because of the whole French fluency thing,” he says. “But it’s also really rewarding work. That helps.”) There’re the new nutrition plans he’s developing for refugees, the food security initiatives he’s dabbling in. It’s all very impressive — makes Alex feel a little self-conscious when he brings up his own work.

“You’ve really outgrown that place,” John says, sipping his beer. “You’re so talented, Alex. You can do better.”

“Well, right now I’m just trying to keep things stable for the kids.”

John orders two mojitos before Alex can refuse. He sips his slowly, but on top of the beer, the restaurant is already starting to look a little distorted. He doesn’t really drink much anymore, aside from the IPAs he keeps in his fridge, and he knows his tolerance is not at all what it used to be. John, though, seems to be fine, if not getting increasingly chattier.

“So, your babysitter,” John says, wiggling an eyebrow. “Where’d you find him?”

“In Central Park,” Alex answers slowly “Why?”

John shrugs and stirs his drink with his straw. “Single?”

“John.”

“What?” John laughs. “I’m asking for _me._ Still have a couple nights before I fly out, you know. I haven’t gotten laid in — I don’t even know how long. And he looks like he could really just f-”

“Hey,” Alex snaps. And it works — John’s mouth clamps shut in surprise. He figures it must be the mojito — doesn’t know why else he’s feeling this sudden rush of jealousy, possessiveness. “Cut it _out._ ”

“Sorry,” John laughs again, a little startled. “I’m just joking around.”

John goes to say something more, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he picks the mint out of his drink and sips up the last of it, the ice rattling in the bottom of the cup.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Alex decides suddenly, and he must stand up too fast — though it feels rather slow — because he knocks his hip into the table, hard, rattling their plates and silverware. He puts one palm flat against the tabletop, steadying himself.

“Whoa,” John says, rising from the table and grabbing his arm. “Hey, are you drunk?”

Alex shakes his head. The room spins, tilts on its side. He closes his eyes. “I don’t — maybe a little.”

John lays a few $20 bills on the table and wraps his arm snug around Alex’s waist, leading him out the door. Alex can’t really tell, given his own state, but it feels like John’s a little unsteady on his feet, too. He pulls away as soon as they’re out on the sidewalk, leans against the wall and waves away cigarette smoke from a passerby. John pulls out his phone and orders an Uber, then joins him.

“Hey,” he says, playfully elbowing Alex’s ribs and grinning. “Remember when Hercules tried to do 21 tequila shots for his birthday?”

Alex groans at the memory. “He threw up all over that poor girl he was trying to bring home.”

The back of John’s head falls against the wall as he laughs, the crows feet webbing his eyes a little more pronounced. Alex can’t help but smile, watching him, even as John looks back over and closes the distance between them.

It feels all wrong before their lips even meet. The taste of lime juice on John’s tongue brings back memories of weekend nights spent bar hopping before falling into bed together, always too drunk to fool around, waking up tangled in cheap sheets with pounding headaches. It’s not who he is anymore — not even who John is anymore. Too much time has passed, too much has happened, to both of them, to make this feel anything but hollow. Empty.

John must feel it, too. He pulls away first.

“That wasn’t…” John trails off, stumbling backwards.

Alex shakes his head. It’s a relief, in a way. Even with twenty years of a near-perfect marriage, he’d be lying to himself if he hadn’t considered what life would be like, if he’d gone down a different road. It’s not just the kiss — it’s the way the entire god damn night has turned out. This? The two of them? They were never meant to make it work.

The Uber driver pulls up to the curb and Alex pushes himself off the wall.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Alex says, and he means it. “But this – it ran its course. A long time ago.”

John doesn’t fight him on it, only nods and stands up a little straighter. “I shouldn’t have done that – ”

“Enjoy the rest of your time in New York, OK?” he interrupts, hand groping for the passenger side door, missing it a couple times. “Tell your dad and mom I say ‘hi’ when you get to Charleston.”

John helps him with the door, carefully guides him into the passenger seat. “Can we – can we keep in touch?”

Alex thinks it over for a second, nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Hey, are you ready?” the driver – an overweight middle-aged man in a stained shirt, thick accent Alex can’t quite place – barks. “I don’t have all night.”

“Get back to your hotel safe,” Alex says. He closes the door and waves at John through the window. The car speeds off. He shuts his eyes against the passing streetlights.

—

The drive back to Park Slope gives him time to sober up and check his phone. Three texts and a missed call from George. His mind wanders in a thousand different directions before he notices the time – 12:43 a.m.

“Shit,” he whispers at the screen, opening up his texts. He wanted to be home before 11 p.m., had no idea so much time had passed. _On my way back now,_ he types out, reading the message over a couple times before hitting the send button.

He feels a headache coming on by the time he swings open the front door. The living room lamp is still on, but all the other lights have been switched off. He sways in the entryway, trying to get his thoughts together, when George steps out of the kitchen.

“Alex,” George sighs, sounding somewhere between exhausted and irritated. That sobers Alex up even more. “It’s almost one in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Alex winces, stripping off his cardigan and tossing it over a chair. He peels off his shoes, too, nearly toppling over when he bends down.

George steps closer to catch him, pulling him back up to his feet. He sniffs the air and makes a face. “Are you drunk?”

Alex flushes, thankful there’s a distinct possibility he’s already tomato-red. “Sort of coming down from that – that state … I need to lie down.”

He pushes away from George and walks into his bedroom, taking care with each step he takes and throwing himself face-first into his duvet. He groans into his pillow, tries to fight off a sudden rush of nausea.

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” George asks from the doorway. Alex snickers and shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. And, hey – sorry for keeping you here so late.” He cringes. “On a work night.”

George waves a dismissive hand and steps into the room. “It’s fine. I was just a little worried. Are things OK?”

Alex rolls onto his side and looks up at him. He is, Alex thinks – objectively – very handsome. Not in an intimidating way, either. It’s not like he’s never noticed before – the strong jaw, warm eyes. And his body – that’s a whole other thing, and really, why hasn’t he taken the time to appreciate what’s been right in front of him? Alex has never liked a lot of muscle, but George seems to have just the right amount – gently toned in all the right places (thighs, arms, probably his chest, too). And his height – he’s taller than anyone Alex has ever been with. But he could probably get into that. Absolutely. If he were interested.

He understands what John meant, now. Objectively, of course.

“It was kind of a mess,” Alex says, shrugging the shoulder not pressed into the mattress. He pats the edge of the bed and George hesitates for a moment, then sits. “I mean, he had a good enough reason for not contacting me, I guess. But then he started ordering drinks, he kissed me – it was like we were completely regressing. I’ve changed so much since we were college kids.”

“Wait – he _kissed_ you?”

“Yeah,” Alex barks out a laugh and shifts so he’s on his back instead. “That was the real kicker. How fucking clueless can you be? I mean – I’m not…I don’t think I can ever date again, but if I did, I’d need someone who’s more in tune with where I am in my life right now and just gets it. I love John, but it’s different now. I can’t backtrack.”

George is quiet for a moment, and Alex realizes the implication behind what he’s just said. Maybe it’s the fading liquid courage, but he doesn’t feel the immediate need to clarify or retract. He lets it rest in the air between them for a moment as he stares up at the uneven paint on his bedroom ceiling. He smiles. Eliza had always complained; he’d always promised to get it fixed.

“I should go home,” George says, standing upright. But Alex swats his arm.

“It’s too late. Take the sofa bed in the living room.”

“You sure?”

“Of course,” Alex says, gazing up at him. He takes the opportunity to look him up and down. “I don’t have anything that would fit you – ”

George snorts. “It’s fine, it’s not like I’ll be sleeping for long anyway. I’ll just run home and change before work.”

Alex nods and grabs his phone off the nightstand, sets his alarm. “Clean blankets and pillows are in the hall closet. Let me know if you need anything else.” 

—

He wakes up disoriented, his alarm blaring next to his ear, on the pillow. It takes everything in him not to hurl it into the wall – his headache has only worsened overnight.

Alex clumsily hits a few buttons on his phone and cocoons himself in his sheets, replaying last night in his head – it feels far away, almost like it happened in a dream. He’s tempted to call in sick – doesn’t think he’ll get much done today, anyway – but then he sees the glass of ice water and two Ibuprofen on his nightstand. He’s walking on thin ice as it is. He can’t skip work today.

He downs the pills and throws on fresh clothes, thankful to see George is already awake, two mugs of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter. The kids are at the table, munching on cereal. Angie shoots him an amused look.

“Wild night, dad?”

Alex groans and joins George at the counter, grabbing his mug.

“What did you tell them?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Well, Angie came downstairs while I was still on the sofa bed,” George shrugs. “I told her you came home a bit later than expected, so I crashed here. Is that OK? I didn’t know what else…”

Alex shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s my fault, anyway.”

They still make it out the door on time, George opting to walk with Alex to the kids’ schools instead of going directly to the train. In any other circumstance, Alex might find it frustrating, bordering on clingy. But George has a way of making him feel at ease. His presence is calming. Therapeutic, in a way. Alex has been turning last night’s words over and over in his mind all morning. He really, truly, doesn’t think he’ll date again. Doesn’t think he has it in him. But he can’t move past the fact he more or less described George – _someone who’s more in tune with where I am in my life right now._ He knows it must be on George’s mind, too.

The F train is stuffed with morning commuters when they finally board, and Alex has two options: He could step closer to the woman on his right, who’s literally flaking the dry skin off her forearms, or he could step closer to George, who smells like his morning coffee and tasteful, day-old cologne. He takes his chances with George and tucks himself against his side, muttering an apology.

George shifts to accommodate him, lifting his arm and bracing it against the wall of the carriage. Another man squeezes into the crowd just before the doors shut, forcefully pushing his back against Alex’s to make more room for himself.

Alex twists uncomfortably against George, noting the sharp intake of breath, just above his ear. He files that away for later, craning his neck around to get a good look at the man behind him.

“What, you couldn’t wait for the next train?”

He turns back around and rolls his eyes at George, who’s looking down at him with a mix of horror and amusement. The man retaliates with a sharp elbow that knocks Alex closer to George and he feels, pressed right above his hipbone, what he’s certain is an erection.

Alex freezes, his heart in his throat. He doesn’t dare move, can feel the heavy rise and fall of George’s chest against his own. He’s afraid to look up at him – isn’t sure what kind of expression he’s wearing on his own face, and he doesn’t want to make him feel like some sort of creep (it’s completely natural, he thinks, being this close to, well, anyone). His own brain starts to turn to mush and suddenly, what was uncomfortable and inconvenient before, is now stirring up a forgotten heat low in his belly.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because the train accelerates with a sharp jolt that shifts everyone a few inches forward – and Alex’s forehead straight into George’s chin.

“Ow, fuck – ” Alex hisses as he’s knocked sideways, grabbing hold of both of George’s shoulders to steady himself, even as George catches him around the waist to stop him from barreling into the other passengers.

The ride smoothes out. George quickly lets him go and Alex drops his hands, thinks the moment is gone until he looks up just in time to see George tonguing the inside of his bottom lip, searching for blood.

“Sorry,” Alex says sheepishly, watching his mouth. And there’s the mushy brain again. “I, uh – I don’t think you’re bleeding.”

George looks down at him, wary, and Alex steadily holds his gaze. Doesn’t want him to feel embarrassed for whatever the fuck just happened. Because Alex sure as hell isn’t.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!
> 
> P.S. - I know you guys are used to twice a week-ish updates, so I wanted to let you know I'll be on vacation next week. I plan to get back into the swing of things next weekend. Thanks for sticking with me!

“I, uh, transfer here,” George says as the train slows a few stops later, and Alex can’t help but wonder if he’s telling the truth or simply trying to run. Alex just gives him a tight nod and moves aside so he can step out onto the platform, disappearing into a crowd of commuters.

“Fuck,” Alex whispers, nearly letting his forehead drop against the pole in front of him. But then he remembers he’s on New York City public transportation. He might feel like he’s losing his mind right now, but he’s not that disgusting.

The thing is, it’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at him the way George did, just now, at 7:45 in the morning. There’s a small part of him that thinks he should feel scandalized by it — because George has been such a good friend to him, and now what?

Where do they go from here?

George, ever the gentleman, doesn’t bring it up next time he comes over for dinner with the kids — or the time he and Alex meet up for happy hour, alone. So Alex doesn’t mention it, either. And yet, it’s on his mind almost constantly. The way George’s chest, sturdy and broad, had felt against his own. The way he’d grabbed him when the train lurched, fingers digging into his waist. How hard and _thick_ he’d felt against his hip. How it made Alex’s own body feel alive again.

It’s not like he can’t get off anymore. It’s just that it feels more like a chore than anything else. Thinking of Eliza’s soft skin and pretty moans, the faded stretch marks on her belly she wore with pride — that offers him nothing but a few minutes of bliss followed by emptiness. And thinking of nothing rarely works and only leaves him frustrated.

He starts to imagine George.

It doesn’t start off as George, though. Just a faceless figure with his hands and his scent. But the more the figure takes shape in his mind, the more it begins to resemble him. He wonders what it might be like to have all that weight, pushing him into the mattress, or how it might feel to run his own hands over his chest or down the backs of his thighs. There’s so much about George’s touch he doesn’t know — he doesn’t have an entire fantasy pieced together. But the one that keeps playing over and over in his mind? He’s face down, hugging a pillow to his chest while George works over his body with his hands and mouth. Massaging his shoulders, nuzzling the back of his neck, pressing chaste kisses to the base of his tailbone before moving lower, sloppy and wet. It’s enough to make Alex feel almost disgusted with himself, the guilt is still there — always in the back of his mind. He can’t get over the haunting feeling that he’s betraying his wife, that somehow she _knows_. But with George’s eyes, warm and grounding, always taking center stage on these nights, he can’t help but succumb to him. Or, at least, this made-up, fantasy version of him.

So, his libido is creeping back. That’s new. And entirely inconvenient.

Alex doesn’t expect to be able to look him in the eye when they meet up over their lunch break, not the morning after he finally allowed himself to pant George’s name into his pillow, two fingers buried up to the knuckle. Instead, he finds he has the opposite problem — he can’t keep his eyes off him.

“You wouldn’t believe the mess I had to clean up today,” George says between spoonfuls of soup. Alex notices, with vague amusement, he ordered it with a bread bowl. Can’t help but wonder if his own eating habits are starting to rub off on him. Alex half-listens to a long-winded story about a clerk accidentally leaving a sealed deposition transcript in a public case file, nodding when appropriate, but otherwise transfixed by the way George’s lips curl when he gets frustrated.

“So that’s grounds for firing, right?” Alex asks, watching George tear off a piece of bread and dip it into his soup.

“Not really,” George shrugs. “She’s been with us two years and has never slipped up. Seems like it was an honest mistake. Regardless, there was sensitive information in that transcript. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened had a reporter requested that file and stumbled upon it — no offense.”

Alex snorts. “None taken.”

He watches George rip off another piece of his bread bowl, hating himself a little for being this mesmerized by a man eating a fucking bowl of soup. George must notice — he looks at Alex and nods down at his plate.

“Do you want to try it? Garden vegetable. Nothing exciting.”

Alex glances up, not sure if it’s a sincere gesture or if George can see right through him and has decided to toy with him. George just smiles and nudges the plate a little closer. Alex clears his throat and shakes his head.

“No, sorry — that wasn’t what I — my sandwich was pretty filling. Thanks, though.”

They leave the cafe together, George leading the way and opening the door for him. They’re just a little over two weeks into November now, the air growing drier and chillier by the day. Alex can already tell they’re in for another long, cold winter.

“Do you go back to Virginia for the holidays?” Alex asks, glancing up at him while they wait at a crosswalk.

George shakes his head. “No, I stay in the city. No real family to spend them with, unless you count some aunts and uncles and a couple cousins who don’t care much for me.”

Alex falls silent for a moment, decides to keep that in mind for a later conversation. He’s curious, but he’s not about to grill George with only fifteen minutes left of their lunch break. He realizes, now, he’s probably taken a few things for granted — he’s never had to spend the holidays alone since moving to the States. He’d either go to Charleston with John’s family or to Albany with Eliza’s. This year will present some new challenges, but at least he has his kids.

“We haven’t even figured out Thanksgiving,” Alex sighs, following George across the street. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll watch the parade broadcast and the National Dog Show. That usually ends with the kids begging for a Scottish Terrier, though.”

They reach the front entrance of Alex’s building and step aside, against the wall and away from the foot traffic. Alex is half-tempted to go in for a hug, however out of place it may seem, if only so he can commit the way George’s body feels against his to memory. But then George tilts his head to one side and smiles at him, almost hopefully. 

“I have Thanksgiving at my place every year,” George says. “It’s just with a couple people from my office who don’t really have anywhere else to go. I know you’ll end up with your own plans, but you and the kids — Angelica, too — are more than welcome.”

“Co-workers?” Alex asks, remembering what Burr said about them the first time he ever asked about George. _His staff really seems to love him._ “So you have, like, one of those Friendsgivings?”

“My assistant and his wife don’t have family in the States — technically, they don’t even celebrate Thanksgiving — but they’ve been coming for years, now. One of the EADAs lost her husband a few years ago, so she joins us, as well.”

Alex is intrigued — he wants to welcome any opportunity offered to get to know George better, meet his friends, step into his space a little. He doesn’t know where any of this is headed, or what results he’s searching for. But he does know that his heart and mind aren’t in the right place, nowhere near capable enough to accept and process what he _wants._ Yet, he’s finding it difficult to step down.

“We’ll be there.”

George blinks in clear surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah — text me your address. Let me know what I should bring. I’ll cook. It’ll be fun.”

George huffs out a relieved laugh and nods. “OK.”

Alex resists the nagging urge to step in for a hug and instead shoots him a quick smile, one hand lingering on the door handle. “I’ll see you tonight? For dinner?”

“See you then.”

Alex feels almost childishly giddy as he makes his way back to his office, choosing the stairs rather than the elevator in an unsuccessful attempt at working off his nervous energy. He’s already planning his dish in his mind — he’s certain he still has Catherine Schuyler’s sweet potato casserole recipe somewhere in his desk at home.

He steps into the kitchenette and finds Angelica’s there, dressed in a conservative black and white collared dress, pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee. He wants to sneak up and grab her from behind — he resists that urge, too.

“You read my mind,” he says instead, cheerfully grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I need a post-lunch pick-me-up.”

Angelica leans against the counter, watching him. “Are you and George dating?”

Alex nearly drops his cup, the wind knocked straight out of his sails. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s who you had lunch with, right?” Angelica shrugs, her expression stoic. Unreadable. “Which is just — I don’t know, a little excessive considering he’s coming over tonight. In my experience, when you’re seeing someone multiple times a day, several times in one week, you’re either dating them, screwing them, or trying to screw them.”

Alex calmly clicks the coffee pot back into place, avoiding eye contact. “We’re not dating — or fucking, for that matter. He’s my friend. He’s helping me with the kids — sorry, where is this all coming from?”

“Alex,” Angelica says, gentler than before. She ignores his last question. “It’s gone beyond the kids. He works in Lower Manhattan and comes up to Bryant Park, just to see you over lunch? Come on — I know you’re smarter than this.”

“If you’re suggesting he has ulterior motives in mind, that’s not it,” Alex says stubbornly, though he can’t be sure. “I may have been married for half my life, but I’ve been around the block a couple times — And, hey, I thought you said hanging out with him was good for me.”

Angelica shrugs. “It is. But — I don’t know, Alex. It hasn’t even been a year. And you know I say this from a place of love, right? I’m not going to go into some spiel about how soon is too soon, or whatever. But I just want you to be careful with yourself.”

_I could say the same thing to you,_ he thinks bitterly, his mind flashing to Jefferson, though he doesn’t dare say it out loud.

“I am being careful, considering there’s _nothing going on_ ,” Alex says through gritted teeth, growing increasingly frustrated. He doesn’t want to raise his voice at work, doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. He feels a distinct pang of shame, hates that Angelica’s words of warning are coming at such an inopportune time. But he’s been telling himself fantasies are fantasies for a reason. Doesn’t mean he’s going to act on them — doesn’t mean he even _wants_ to act on them.

At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself.

“Also,” he continues, before Angelica can respond. “You honestly think I’d start seeing someone without telling you? That kind of stings, I’m not going to lie.”

Angelica softens a little at that. “No. But you at least see where I’m coming from, right?”

“Not really,” Alex mutters into his mug, unwilling to bend on this. There’s a tiny part of him that wants to talk this over, get her perspective, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s best, he thinks, to keep her out of it for now. “Seriously, Angelica, nothing’s going on. I promise.”

Angelica sighs through her nose and then smiles, a little too wide. “OK. I believe you. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Sure.”

“Can I say something else that you might not like?”

Alex almost groans, but controls himself. “Do I really have another option?”

Angelica smiles a little at that. “Listen — we haven’t hung out in a while. I was really hoping it’d just be me, you and the kids at dinner tonight.”

Alex frowns. “You’re asking me to cancel on George? You still need to meet him.”

“Is that OK? Do you mind?” Angelica asks. And then, looking down, tilting her foot and distractedly examining the heel of her black Lanvin pump. “I’ve kind of had a rough couple weeks. It’d be good to just have some family time. Remember why I’m here.”

That strikes Alex as odd, but he shrugs it off quickly. He figures it’s the least he can do to keep her off his back, maybe put a little bit of distance between himself and George. Take a little time to cool off. And, she’s right — it has been a while since they all came together as a family.

“OK,” Alex agrees. “That’s fine. I’ll tell him.”

He sets his coffee mug down and fishes his phone out of his pocket, clicking on his messages. He knows it’s the right thing to do, though he can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. He’d hoped seeing George tonight would be somewhat of a reward for what’s sure to be another insufferable day at the _Gazette._

_Change of plans tonight, sorry. Need to be with family._

Alex bites down on his lower lip as he presses ‘send.’ It’s fine — they’re both adults. George will understand.

“I’ll bring my asparagus stir-fry over tonight,” Angelica says, mostly to herself, while Alex waits impatiently for George to reply. His breath catches in his throat as soon as his phone vibrates in his hand.

_Sorry to hear it, but no worries. Everything okay?_

Alex texts back a quick response and looks up at Angelica. Figures now’s a good a time as any to tell her.

“Dinner is officially just the four of us,” he says, returning Angelica’s smile. “It’s actually going to work out really well — you can just meet George when we go to his place for Thanksgiving.”

Angelica’s smile drops. “Pardon?”

“He invited all of us over to his place for Thanksgiving. We didn’t have any solid plans, so, I said we’d come,” Alex says. “And that’s kind of — that’s non-negotiable.”

Angelica’s smile slowly returns to her face. Tighter, this time. “Of course. It’d be rude to switch plans around a second time.”

Alex lets out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding as soon as she walks out of the room, heels clicking across the tiles. He’s going to meet George’s co-workers. George is going to meet his sister-in-law. On Thanksgiving day.

He might need a drink or two beforehand.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

_115 Central Park West #29D_

Alex is making the kids breakfast when he gets the text. He stops flipping pancakes to read it twice, then a third time, before prying his laptop open and typing the address into Google to confirm his suspicions. He can’t help but laugh as he shoots back a reply.

_The Majestic? Seriously? I know you lived near the park but I wasn’t expecting that._

He’s not that intimidated by wealth anymore, got over it a long time ago. Knows Eliza lived somewhat humbly, considering where she came from. Still — it’s a big pill to swallow. George texts back while Alex is at the grocery store, hours later. He tries not to read too much into that.

_Not really something that comes up in conversation often. See you tomorrow?_

So Alex prepares a sweet potato casserole and Angelica bakes a lattice-top blackberry pie — the tension between them has eased slightly since deciding that she’ll take Angie and Will upstate to visit with relatives and Peggy’s in-laws over the long weekend. And, with Will being just as thrilled as Alex to visit with George over the holiday, there’s really no room for arguing.

George looks almost sheepish when he invites them inside. His apartment is, as expected, beautiful. Bright white walls, high ceilings, windows overlooking Central Park, a spacious floor plan, immaculate and well-decorated but not stiff or uninviting. Angelica scans the foyer, clearly impressed, before her eyes flicker to Alex’s, waiting for her introduction.

“George,” Alex says, shifting his casserole around so he can touch his arm — casual, but enough to make George tense under his fingertips. He nods toward Angelica. “This is my sister-in-law, Angelica Schuyler.”

“Miss Schuyler,” George says fondly, voice warm as he shakes her offered hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I know this is — unconventional. Thank you for coming.”

Angelica smiles up at him, seems genuinely charmed, and Alex lets out a soft sigh of relief. George takes her pie and Alex’s casserole before nodding toward the kitchen.

“I’ll set these down — we’re still setting up the dining room, I’m afraid. In the meantime, Angelica, a glass of chardonnay? Kids, I have juice or sparkling water.”

He switches the television on for Angie and Will, turning the channel to _A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving_. Alex follows him into the kitchen, leaving Angelica to browse a towering floor-to-ceiling bookshelf next to the fireplace. He’s hoping they’ll get a quiet moment alone so he can thank George again for the invitation, catch up a little — it’s been less than a week since they’ve seen each other, and Alex hates it — he’s missed him. But as soon as they step into the kitchen, he spots a woman in a striking pink dress pulling the turkey out of the oven.

“Martha,” George says, grabbing a bottle of chardonnay out of the wine cooler. “Meet Alex. Alex, this is Martha Custis.”

Martha drops her oven mitt on the marble countertop and smiles widely, showing off a blindingly white set of perfect teeth. It occurs to Alex that she must be the EADA George mentioned — the one whose husband passed. Alex swallows and returns the smile. He knew going in this would likely be a topic of conversation — that’s why they’re here, after all. She looks close to George’s age, petite and thin with a yoga-toned body — almost birdlike. Doesn’t match Alex’s height even with the heels she’s wearing. Seeing her stand next to George, it’s almost comical.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she says, pulling him into an embrace. Alex, surprised by her familiarity, leans into it anyway. “It’s wonderful to meet you and finally match the name with a face — such a handsome one, too.”

George looks up from where he’s pouring Angelica’s wine, accidentally clattering the bottle against the glass. Martha shoots him a look and a quick smirk. Alex blinks.

“I’m going back out to the living room,” George says, pulling two bottles of juice out of the fridge, tucking them under one arm and grabbing Angelica’s wine glass. “Martha.”

Alex watches him go. It sounds almost like a warning, but Martha seems unbothered.

“It’s nice of him to do this,” Alex says after a few moments of silence. “You’ve been — you’ve been coming to these things for a few years now?”

Martha nods, grabbing a bottle of red wine and pouring herself a glass. “Daniel died in ’09. Brain cancer. The kids are grown and they’ve all moved out of the city, so we only manage to get together for Christmas these days. George suggested we start our own Thanksgiving, and here we are.”

“Cancer,” Alex repeats softly, then immediately screws his eyes shut. Smooth. But Martha only nods.

“They gave him 12 to 14 months, and then 13 months in — like clockwork,” she snaps her fingers. “Gone.”

Alex looks down at his shoes. He’s always had the morbid thought that, at least he didn’t have to watch Eliza or Philip suffer. At least it was _fast_. There’s no better way to die, he thinks in the end it all hurts the same way. But in some twisted sense he does envy Martha’s position — at least she got to say goodbye.

She sips her wine and he notices she’s not wearing a wedding ring. She notices him noticing, answers the question that immediately jumps to his mind.

“I took it off a little over two years after he passed away,” she says, shrugging a shoulder. “Dated a few men who didn’t like that I kept it on, but I took it off when _I_ was ready.”

She touches a delicate chain around her neck, tugs a gold band out from under the neckline of her dress.

“This is his ring.” She glances at Alex’s left hand and smiles. “You’ll know what to do when it’s time, dear.”

Alex finds himself a little overwhelmed by how much it feels like he _knows_ Martha. It occurs to him that he’s never actually met someone else in his situation. Seeing her like this — self-assured and, by all appearances, happy — that gives him hope.

“You’ve known George for some time, I take it?” he asks, smoothing his palm along the cool countertop, trying not to sound too curious. Martha smiles.

“A little over fifteen years now, I suppose,” she muses. He can practically see the wheels spinning in her head. But whatever she wants to say, she keeps it to herself. He’s thinking of ways to pry it out of her when the doorbell rings.

“That’ll be Gilbert and Adrienne.” Martha touches his elbow, leading him down the hallway and back out into the living room. She adds, helpfully jogging Alex’s memory, “George’s assistant and his wife.”

Over two decades of holidays with the Schuylers have failed to prepare Alex for Gilbert and Adrienne de Lafayette, who arrive with their son — younger than Angie — Georges. They’re impossibly attractive — that’s the first thing he takes note of. Gilbert — or ‘Lafayette,’ as he asks Alex to call him — is almost just as tall as George, thin and toned with dark brown eyes. Adrienne is only about an inch or so shorter with glowing dark skin and short, shaved hair. High cheekbones, like she’s waked straight off the cover of a magazine. She, at least, seems friendly. Lafayette does not. Or maybe it’s just the pang of jealousy Alex feels shoot through him when Lafayette takes George by the shoulders and plants a firm kiss on each cheek.

“Give me just a few minutes to prepare the dining room, and we’ll be ready for dinner,” George says, taking their coats and bending down to kiss the top of Georges de Lafayette’s head. “You’re all here earlier than Martha and I planned for.”

Alex tries to catch his eye, wants to be invited to help, but George retreats back to the kitchen without looking his way. He doesn’t want to sulk, knows that’s childish, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being ignored. His irritation only grows when he sees Georges plop down on the leather sectional with Angie and Will, switching the channel on the television. The Lafayettes are clearly at home here.

He finds himself searching for Martha, but she’s grouped off with Adrienne and Angelica — sipping wine and giggling about something he can’t quite hear from where he’s standing on the other side of the room, left alone with Lafayette.

“Monsieur Alexander Hamilton,” Lafayette says, clicking his tongue and looking him up and down, an almost amused look on his face. And Alex doesn’t like that at all. “George has mentioned you to me. It seems he is quite taken with you.”

Alex’s heart pounds in his chest. He wasn’t expecting that. He forces a neutral expression.

“He said that?”

Lafayette shrugs his shoulder lazily. “Not so much in words. But I have known George for many, many years. We are very close, and what he does not tell me, I still know. He values your friendship.”

Alex’s shoulder slump. Friendship. Right. It’s not unusual, he knows, that Lafayette’s true meaning might be lost in translation. He clears his throat, changes the subject.

“How long have you been George assistant?”

Lafayette rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, doing the math in his head. “Ah, eighteen years or so?”

Alex’s eyes widen. “Eighteen _years_?”

“It may seem a lengthy amount of time, for a position not many respect,” Lafayette scoffs, clearly offended. “But I first came to America as an intern on a work visa. He took care of me then, and he continues to do so. He is my family.”

Alex just nods, still feeling a little overwhelmed. That explains it, though — the way he refers to George by his first name, the small fact that his _son_ shares his name. Alex crosses his arms over his chest, tight, and glances at the clock on the mantle. He hears Angelica laugh again, across the room. He’s glad she seems to be enjoying herself because, frankly, his mood has soured. He’s ready to go home.

—

Thanksgiving dinner is fine. The kids are well-behaved, the conversation is interesting, the food and wine are superb, but aside from a few work-related questions directed at Alex (“Any interesting stories you’re working on?” “How much time do you have off for the holiday?”) George doesn’t engage with him much. Alex knows he’s been selfish — George has other guests, guests he’s clearly closer with. And Martha, at least, has been entertaining him a good portion of the night. So there’s that.

There’s a break in their meal while George heads back to the kitchen to prepare dessert, so Alex grabs his glass of wine and excuses himself to the living room, with Adrienne in the middle of recommending her favorite Parisian restaurants to no one in particular. He feels Angelica’s eyes on his back, but Martha is the one who follows him out.

“You seem a bit put out, sweetheart,” she says, watching Alex tip his glass back, downing the rest of his wine. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

Alex takes a deep breath and perches himself on the sectional’s armrest, doesn’t know if it’s the wine talking or the fact he feels fairly comfortable around this woman after just a few hours of knowing her. But he spills, anyway.

“I think I upset George,” he says, voice low, even though the conversation in the dining room is loud enough to mask their own voices. “He sent me this address, the Majestic, and I made a comment — it wasn’t meant to be rude. Just poking fun. You know? But he’s been all weird and aloof ever since.”

Which is fucking bizarre, he decides, considering the man popped a boner on the train and seemed perfectly fine the next day.

Martha smiles. “I think you’re reading too much into it, Alex.”

“OK, but even so — I thought he — never mind. This is going to sound crazy.”

“Try me.”

Alex licks his wine-stained lips and nods. “I thought there was something deeper. Between us, I mean. He’s done so much for me and my kids and there have been — other things — that made me think, that maybe…but now I see the way he is with you, with Lafayette, and I think I get it now. That this is just kind of who he is, he’s a caretaker. I mean, Lafayette named his damn kid after him? He’s worked for him for eighteen years? I think it was just all in my head. And that’s fine. But it was just good — to feel that way again. Wanted. But it’s for the best, right? This is clearly something I’m not even close to being ready f-”

“Alex,” Martha says softly. Alex stops, catches his breath. She hesitates for a moment. Looks over at him, sighs and says, almost to herself, “I promised George I wouldn’t do this.”

Alex’s throat tightens. “Do what?”

“George talks about you,” she says, carefully, precise, making sure Alex is hanging on her every word. She steps closer. “Lafayette may be like a son to him, but I’m his closest friend. We trust each other. And what I’ll say is — the only thing I _can_ say, if I want to keep his friendship — you have nothing to worry about. He cares about you, you and your children, very much. But you have to understand, dear, not everyone is comfortable having these feelings — feelings I know George has for you — for someone who’s lost their spouse. Trust me, I know.”

Alex feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs — but he can’t determine if it’s in a good or bad way. On some level, he’s been craving this all along — the knowledge that George wants him just as badly as Alex has grown to want him. On the other hand, though, it terrifies him. His heart isn’t ready to respond, not in the way his body has — and that…he doesn’t know what to make of that yet. What to make of any of this. He feels helpless.

“How are you supposed to know when it’s right?” Alex asks, defeated. “How did you know?”

Martha shrugs. “There’s no right or wrong way to go about this. But you’re both adults. The best thing you can do now, Alex? Is just talk to him.”

Alex nods and sets his wine glass down on the coffee table, wipes his sweaty palms down the thighs of his pants. He knows Martha likely didn’t mean _now_ , but when else? He’s never really been the patient type. And he doesn’t know how long this newfound courage will last — it could be gone tomorrow, right along with the buzz. Besides, he’s tired of being ignored all night. So he disregards Martha’s concerned look and slips into the kitchen.

George is slicing one of the pies, his back turned. Alex takes a moment to stop and admire the way his muscles ripple and shift under his shirt. He steps a little closer, notices George is humming a tune he can’t identify. Alex chuckles softly and George turns around, abandoning the pie and quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry,” Alex says, still smiling. “Need help in here?”

“I think I have the pie situation under control,” George says, running his hands under the faucet, looking back at Alex as he dries them off. “Are you all right tonight? You’re quiet.” And then he says, softer, “I know this must be hard. Without her.”

Alex considers this. Being here, with a new friend and complete strangers, it barely feels like a holiday. He thinks it might settle in a day or so later, maybe when the kids and Angelica have left the city. He nods and steps a little closer to George.

“I feel OK right now,” he admits. He inhales, then exhales. Hopes it’s not as loud as it feels. “I actually wanted to ask you something?”

George frowns and leans back against the counter. “All right.”

Alex has to force himself to meet his eyes. “Angelica’s taking the kids upstate tomorrow. They won’t come back until Sunday. I’d like it if we could spend some time together — just the two of us.”

He knows that’s not necessarily new territory — they’ve certainly spent time alone together, already. But from the way George’s jaw drops, just slightly, the way his eyes darken and scan over Alex’s face — he knows George grasps the meaning behind his words.

“Alex…” he trails off. “I don’t…?”

“Look, I just talked to Martha — ”

George looks startled, anger flashing through his eyes. “I _told_ her not to — ”

“Hey, no,” Alex says, instinctively stepping closer and placing his hand over George’s on the countertop. “This isn’t because of Martha, OK? Whatever you’re feeling, I’m feeling it, too. Or, at least, I think so. Which is why we need to talk.”

George slides his hand out from under Alex’s and Alex looks back up at him, hurt, his mind reeling. For a moment, he wonders if this is all some cruel, elaborate joke that everyone but him is in on. He’s about to back away, accept the rejection, when George steps forward instead. He brushes his fingertips across Alex’s cheek bone before firmly cupping his jaw. Alex freezes, worried he’ll try something he’s not sure he’s ready for. But he relaxes, just a little, as George runs the calloused pad of his thumb up and down his cheek before dropping his hand all together. Alex blinks, his stomach twisting and turning somersaults. He lets the air return to his lungs.

“OK,” George nods, a little breathless himself. “We’ll do dinner, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Alex says.

“How about Aureole? Bryant Park?”

Alex nods up at him, sucking in his bottom lip. He wants to say something more — break up the growing silence. But then the door leading into the dining room swings open and Lafayette breezes in, eyes narrowing when he sees them together.

“May I help with the pies?” he asks, his eyes fixing on Alex.

George clears his throat and steps away from Alex, grabbing Angelica’s blackberry pie and gesturing at the pumpkin and apple. “Of course. Grab those two, if you would.”

And then he disappears back into the dining room. Alex follows him out, avoiding Lafayette’s curious gaze and trying to fight the smile twisting on his lips. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

“All right,” Alex says, slamming the trunk of Angelica’s Lexus shut. It’s Friday morning and they’re standing outside the brownstone, the kids bundled up in sweaters and scarves. Angelica’s in sweatpants, a travel mug gripped in one hand. “You have Will’s inhaler? Your phone charger?”

“We have everything,” Angelica assures him, smiling as she fishes her car keys out of her purse.

“And you know Angie gets car sick? That she’ll need the front seat?” Alex puts a hand on Angie’s shoulder, ignores her eye roll.

“Dad — ”

“It’s all going to be fine,” Angelica says, stepping forward to press a kiss on Alex’s temple. She runs a hand down his arm. “Don’t worry about a thing. You haven’t had a weekend to yourself in ages. You need it.”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t like being away from them.”

Angelica nods knowingly and squeezes his upper arm. “Enjoy yourself. Have any plans?”

“I’ll probably catch up on reading,” Alex says. He doesn’t know why he lies — there’s nothing shameful about seeing George tonight, yet mentioning it now doesn’t feel right. Not after Angelica’s interrogation the week before.

Angelica looks at him for a beat, and he can tell she knows he’s withholding something. But the moment passes.

“I’ll text you when we get to Albany,” she says, wagging her fingers, heading over to the car.

Alex turns to Will and Angie, kneeling down to pull them both into a tight hug. Angie melts into it a little, hooking her chin over Alex’s shoulder.

“You guys be good for your Aunt Angelica and Aunt Peggy, OK?” Alex says, pulling back with a tight smile. Will looks down at the pavement and nods. They’ve gone on trips with Angelica before, but this feels different. _Is_ different. They haven’t been away for a single night — not since they lost their mother and brother.

“Love you guys,” he says. And then, over to Angelica, climbing into the driver's seat, “drive safely, OK?”

He watches the SUV round the corner before heading back inside. The house is almost too quiet like this. It’s far too early to even think about getting ready for the night, so he sets the alarm on his coffee maker and crawls back into bed, sleeping well into the afternoon. He doesn’t feel well-rested when he wakes up, though. If anything, he’s even more groggy and drained. The coffee helps. So does the text from Angelica, announcing their safe arrival.

It’s not a date. He knows this. Doesn’t even want it to be one, really. Still, deciding what to wear turns out to be a nightmare. He settles on the bottle-green suit he wore to Jefferson’s gala, foregoing the tie. He’s had it tailored since, but he still finds himself frowning at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He’s no longer swimming in the suit, but he still looks far too thin, completely undesirable, nothing like who he used to be, and the extra sleep has done nothing to combat the dark circles under his eyes. The positive energy from yesterday, the rush from their conversation in George’s kitchen — it’s all but vanished. He can’t help but feel like George will take one look at him tonight and change his mind.

So he decides to nip it in the bud.

He’s drafting the text to George ( _I don’t know if I’m up for this tonight. Rain check?_ ) when a new message pops up right under their last conversation.

_I’m looking forward to tonight. The reservation is under ‘Washington,’ if you arrive before me._

Alex’s heart flutters. He swallows around the growing lump in his throat and types out his response before his mind can catch up.

_Got it. See you soon._

—

One of his first dates with Eliza was at The Rink. He’d never skated in his life. She’d started her figure skating lessons at four years old. She showed off for him while he wobbled around, swinging his arms for balance, somehow always managing to catch himself before falling face-first into the ice. Y-spins, triple axels — she could do it all. Other skaters stopped to watch and admire her. There was no need to impress him, though. Even then, Alex knew he was a goner.

He tries not to watch the couples as he crosses through the park and around Winter Village. Focuses instead on the night ahead. George is already sitting at the table when he arrives, looking even more handsome than usual in the dimly-lit dining space, dressed in a flattering charcoal suit Alex has never seen him wear.

George rises to greet him, one palm resting flat on the small of his back as he pulls him in for a lingering hug. Alex can’t help but smile into George’s shoulder and breathe him in a little — he smells like a mix of his cologne, soap and the autumn air.

There’s already an uncorked bottle of wine on the table. George doesn’t bother to wait for their server — he pours them each a glass while Alex scans the menu. Prix fixe, three courses. He tries not to react when he reads the cost. It feels like a lot for this non-date. Then again, Aureole is probably the equivalent of a Chipotle for George.

“Is there anything on here you’d recommend?” Alex asks, looking up from the menu to find George watching him from over the rim of his wine glass.

“I was thinking we could ask for two extra plates with each course,” George says. “Split the dishes so we both get to try a little of each?”

“Yeah. I’ll let you pick, then,” Alex says, setting the menu down. George gives him a puzzled look. “Sorry — I’m a little too nervous to put much thought into food right now.”

George nods, smiling stiffly as their server comes by to pour their waters and take their order. George waits until he’s out of earshot before scooting his chair in and clearing his throat.

“Alex,” he says, drawing his gaze up from where it’s fixed on the eggshell table cloth. “This past month has been…complicated for me. And for you, I can’t even imagine.”

Alex laughs, a little too loud. “‘Complicated’ would be an understatement.”

“I’m not sure how to dive into this, but let me say — I don’t let people in very easily. I keep a close circle. You met most of them yesterday. Meeting you, I never thought it would get to this point and quite honestly, Alex, it’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. Knowing you feel the same…”

Alex nods as George trails off. “It’s been — sort of a whirlwind. But everything you’ve done for me, and for my kids…no one else, aside from Angelica, has stepped up like you have, or offered to take care of us. That’s…we really needed that. I really needed that. It’s been nice to be around someone who doesn’t just look at us and feel nothing but pity, you know?”

George nods, looking almost relieved. “I don’t want to scare you off. I know this changes everything.”

“I’m not scared,” Alex promises. “I mean, it’s a little daunting, sure. But — let me say, first, that I’m not sure what to make of any of this, yet. I know how I feel. But figuring out what to do with that, right now? That part’s not easy.”

“That’s understandable. I’m with you on that.”

“Good. I, uh, don’t really know how to say this tactfully so I’m just going to go for it, OK? But that morning on the F train — ” George looks pained and Alex can’t help but laugh. “No, listen to me — I haven’t been able to get it off my mind. Haven’t been able to get _you_ off my mind.”

George shifts in his chair and shakes his head. “That was terrible.”

“That was _hot_ ,” Alex says before he can censor himself, can tell it catches George off guard as well, from the way his eyebrows shoot up. “You made me _want_ again. I’ve missed that. That — _that’s_ the easy part, you know? I know this is probably a lot to hear, but — ”

Alex is cut off as the server brings out their first course, diving into graphic detail on each ingredient. He’s not paying the least bit attention — notices that George’s eyes are unfocused, too, staring at a spot past the server’s head.

“Anyway,” he continues quietly, once they’re alone again. “I guess what I’m saying is, I like you, George. A lot, actually. Not only that, but I trust you. So if you’re interested in just — not defining — seeing where things go — I don’t know if that seems juvenile — ”

George shakes his head quickly, flustered. “No, not at — it doesn’t. Obviously, the important thing here, is to make sure you — ”

“I’m fine,” Alex says firmly, doesn’t want to leave any room for argument. He knows there are parts of this he’ll have to work on his own, but intimacy? It’s a basic need, one he’s gone without for long enough, now. He’d be hard-pressed to find someone more fitting than George — someone who cares about him, respects him, someone whose desires seem to line up with his own. It looks like a bad idea on the surface — he’s self-aware enough to recognize that. But it doesn’t feel bad. It feels right.

And it’s been a while since anything’s felt right.

They make small talk as they enjoy their dinner, the weight of what they’ve just decided still heavy between them. Alex is relieved when their last course arrives — a chef’s assortment of sorbets and ice creams and an apricot tart. George only takes a scoop of the pomegranate sorbet and a corner of the tart, leaving the rest of the dessert behind for Alex.

“My mom used to make the best homemade ice cream,” Alex says, rolling a scoop of the pistachio onto his plate and slicing a sliver off with his spoon. “No offense, but it was way better than this.”

“Used to?” George says.

Alex nods, smiles faintly. “She passed away when I was a kid. When I was still living in St. Croix. It was a long time ago.”

George frowns, puzzled. “Wait, St. Croix?”

“Yeah — sorry. It’s like your Majestic penthouse. Doesn’t often come up in conversation.”

“We don’t have to — ”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Alex says, sincere. “I guess the CliffNote’s version is, yeah, that’s where I grew up. She got sick, died when I was thirteen. My dad was long gone by then, so I was living with one of my cousins up until I graduated. Came to the States on a full-ride scholarship. My cousin — passed away, too. Knew I didn’t want to go back, so I got married, decided to stick around.”

George blinks. “I’d like to hear the unabridged version. Perhaps another night.”

Alex nods, gives him another quick smile. He’s had years and years to move past that part of his life, and he more or less has. It’s not that he really minds reliving it, it’s just that it’s been so long. He almost feels like he’s talking about another person. Doesn’t feel like any of it happened to him. Not really.

“What about you?” Alex asks, taking another bite of ice cream. He notices that George’s lips have turned burgundy from a mix of the cabernet and pomegranate sorbet. He feels a little lightheaded with the realization that, if he’s played his cards right tonight, he’ll finally get to taste them. He shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present. “Last week you said you didn’t spend holidays with family?”

George picks the napkin up off his lap, folds it, puts it back on the table. “Well, my father passed away when I was eleven. I lost an older brother while I was in my twenties, and my mother only a few years ago — and she and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye. Never quite got along.”

“Got it,” Alex nods, sensing it’s likely time to change the subject. George seems to be on the same page. He signals for the waiter, handing over his credit card before he’s even seen the bill. Alex tugs his own wallet out of his back pocket. “Let me at least leave the tip or something.”

George shakes his head, signing the check when it arrives and closing the folder with finality. “I suggested we do dinner. It’s my treat. Are you ready?”

Alex nods, trying not to visibly shiver when George guides him out of the restaurant with one hand on his back. And then they’re standing out in the cold, Alex’s arms wrapped around his torso in a vain attempt to stay warm. He looks up at George and steps a little closer to him, trying to steal some of his body heat. It’s painfully clear neither one of them knows what to say next.

“Do you want to walk by Winter Village?” George asks.

Alex shakes his head immediately. “I’m too cold,” he says. That’s technically true. He also doesn’t care to walk by the spot where he first started falling in love with his dead wife. Not with his new…whatever George is to him.

“All right,” George says uncertainly, stepping back, the disappointment clear in his tone. “Are we calling it a night?”

Alex sucks his lips in over his teeth. Thinks about going home to his quiet, empty house, spending his first night completely alone. No kids. No Eliza. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, closing the distance between them. “I want you to come home with me.”

George’s eyes darken. Alex is so close to him now, it’s almost painful — he just wants George to reach out and touch him, anywhere he wants. But he only nods.

“I’ll get us a cab.”

“Mm,” Alex hums up at him, teasing. “And here I thought you’d want to take the train.”

George sighs and shoulders past him, heading for the street corner. Alex grins, and follows.

—

It’s easy enough for George to convince their cab driver to drive out to Brooklyn. They’re in the backseat, George’s hand heavy on his leg, thick fingers curling around to press into his inner thigh. Alex can’t help but smile, admiring George’s profile as the city lights flicker through and reflect off the window. The buzz from their wine may have worn off long ago, but he still feels almost drunk off the way George is touching him, rubbing circles into his thigh with the pad of his thumb. Alex leans into his shoulder, heart racing when George brushes his lips against the top of his head, light and quick.

He doesn’t quite remember pulling out his keys or walking up the stoop to his front door, it’s all a blur, with how close George is following behind him. Alex fumbles with the doorknob, hissing when he feels George’s hands slide down over his hips, tugging him closer until he’s pressed along his back. Alex grinds back until he feels George erection, hard against his ass. He grins. This’ll be a fun night.

He finally gets the door open, George’s breath hot against the shell of his ear as they stumble in together, one of George’s hands still heavy on his hip. They part, just for a moment, as Alex closes and locks the front door, his hands trembling from nerves and excitement. He doesn’t bother to switch on the light — leaves the room soft and dim.

George is shedding his suit jacket when he turns back around, folding it neatly over the back of the sectional and loosening his tie, brown eyes fixed on Alex. He looks away from the bulge just beneath his belt, doesn’t want to get too distracted by that just yet. There’s plenty of time, and he hasn’t even had the chance to _kiss_ him yet. He shrugs off his own jacket and rapidly closes the distance between them, grabbing the back of George’s neck and dragging him down.

It’s sweeter, less desperate than he intended, with George cupping his jaw with one hand to keep him in place, his other hand squeezing his waist. Alex can’t do much but stand there in the middle of his living room, knees weakening. George tastes like his pomegranate sorbet. He pecks the corner of Alex’s mouth before moving lower, to his neck, nipping at thin skin, and it goes straight to Alex’s cock, makes him shiver a bit. He presses closer to George, fingers digging into his shoulders as he’s hit with the strange realization that he hasn’t kissed another person, aside from Eliza — and, well, John — in over twenty years. His mind is racing, trying to catch up to what his body is doing. George must sense it — he straightens up, brushes Alex’s tangled hair out of his face and behind his ear.

“Good?”

“Good,” Alex says, his chest heaving against George’s. “And you? This is what you wanted?”

George laughs hoarsely, tilts his head to press a kiss to the underside of Alex’s jaw. “You have no idea.”

His bedroom is dark — he keeps it that way. He’s long since replaced the king-sized bed he shared with Eliza with a new one, so there’s no baggage there, no conflicting feelings as George strips down to his boxer briefs and climbs onto the mattress, leaning his back against the headboard. Alex takes a moment to drink him in — the muscled biceps and broad chest, the thick thighs. He wishes he’d turned on a light. Just looking at George makes him feel small, fragile, thinks that even at his strongest and fittest he’d still feel this way. He’s never quite been into anyone with George’s build before, would find it intimidating in most situations. But George? George makes him feel safe. Always has.

“Come here,” George says, smooth voice piercing the silence. Alex breathes in and nods, peeling off his own shirt and pants until he’s down to his boxers and undershirt. He shivers a little as the cool air hits his skin, grins sheepishly at George and shuffles over to the bed, letting George arrange him so he’s straddling his thighs.

Alex grinds down on him slowly, one eyebrow raised, grinning when George’s head knocks back against the headboard, a controlled moan rumbling low in his throat. Alex could do this forever; watch the strain in the tendons of George’s neck, the way his eyelids flutter. He squirms a little when George grabs onto his hips, holding him still as he grinds himself against Alex’s ass, his clothed erection unmistakably thicker, bulkier, than Alex remembers, realizes George must’ve only been half-hard that morning on the train.

“Jesus,” Alex whispers to himself, trying to remember what’s still in the attached master bathroom — lube, definitely. Maybe condoms, though he’s not entirely convinced George will fit in whatever he has. George pulls him back to the present with a quick kiss, surprisingly chaste given the position they’re in.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, running his hands soothingly up and down Alex’s back, dipping beneath his undershirt. Alex groans, tilts his head back when George presses his lips against his collarbone, one hand starting to rub low on his belly.

“Hand,” Alex whispers. “Your hand. Please.”

George hums deep in his throat. Nods. “Do you have — ?”

“We’re not moving,” Alex says, grabbing hold of George’s wrist and bringing his hand up to his mouth. He sucks in each finger individually, licking wetly between them, watching George the entire time through half-lidded eyes. George’s fingers are thick and strong and warm against his tongue, he grazes his teeth against one of his knuckles before running his tongue along George’s palm, properly soaking it.  

George runs his hand down Alex’s stomach, teasing, before rolling them over so Alex is flipped onto his back, head falling back against the pillows. Alex smiles up at him as George takes hold of his knees, spreads his thighs apart and settles between them. This feels…good. Better than he expected, even. George has been nothing but patient and kind with him ever since they met, and this is no different. His mind is already racing ahead to the future, knows that, later, he’s going to want so much more. But for now? This is good. This is _perfect_. He lifts his hips up, lets George tug his boxers halfway down his thighs and pull out his dick.

Alex’s body almost goes limp from his touch alone, screws his eyes shut as George starts stroking him slowly, starting up a comfortable rhythm while Alex grows harder and harder in his palm. George is a little too far away to kiss, but he’s making up for it by running his other hand up and down Alex’s belly, pushing his undershirt further and further up his chest. Alex arches into it, slamming his head back into the pillow when George’s thumb brushes across his tip as he starts focusing on the head of his cock.

“God,” Alex whimpers, fingers curling into his bedsheets as George twists his wrist, working him a little faster, unable to decide whether to keep his eyes on Alex or his cock. But Alex doesn’t last long. All it takes is another swipe of George’s thumb across his tip, a few more firm strokes, and he’s coming across his own bare stomach, his shirt now pushed all the way up his chest.

George, quiet aside from stuttered breathing, eases him through it with a tender grip before crawling up the bed and curling up along his side, giving him a long, languid kiss as Alex, drunk and dizzy off of what just happened, comes down from his orgasm. He could doze off like this, he thinks, with George pressed up against him — and then he remembers. _George._

He rolls his head over toward George, smiling when he’s greeted with a quick peck on the forehead. Alex reaches out, brushes fingertips across his cheek. “You didn’t…”

George shakes his head, pressing his nose into Alex’s hair and closing his eyes. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Stop it,” Alex says, lazily swatting George’s chest. “You spent, like, $300 on dinner and wine tonight. It’s the polite thing to do.”

George frowns over at him. Alex laughs.

“It’s a joke. I’m joking.”

Even so, Alex doesn’t know how good he’ll be at this point, exhausted and spread out across his bed. He hasn’t sucked anyone off in two decades, definitely doesn’t trust himself to do it in a way George deserves. Still, he can’t let him go untouched tonight — no. That won’t do.

George sees him reaching and shakes his head, grabbing his wrist and pinning it gently against the mattress as he closes the distance between them once more, capturing Alex’s lips in a simple, careful kiss. Alex relaxes into it, still feeling warm and serene. It takes him a moment to realize George has pushed down his own boxer briefs and is vigorously stroking himself off.

Alex whimpers into the kiss, mostly for George’s benefit, pinching George’s lower lip between his teeth. “Come on,” he encourages, breaking away. He runs his hand across George’s chest, brushing one of his nipples, wedging his knee between George’s thighs. “I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long. It’s OK.”

That seems to do it. George comes with a grunt, spilling over Alex’s stomach, hot and sticky. Alex closes his eyes as George quietly tucks himself back in before attending to Alex, helping him pull his own boxers back up before collapsing next to him.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is George’s soft breathing and the rumble of passing cars outside the window. Alex watches him out of the corner of his eye, savoring the moment before brushing his fingers across George’s bare arm.

“I’m gonna go wash off,” he says, straining to sit up. But George shakes his head, pulling him back down by the back of his shirt.

“Stay here. I’ve got you,” George says, swinging long legs over the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. He returns with a warm washcloth, helps Alex mop off his stomach.

Alex tugs his shirt down once George has finished, moves over to accommodate him on the bed. But George sits on the edge of the mattress instead, silent, leaving Alex still sprawled out on his back.

“That was — ”

“Incredible,” Alex finishes for him, a smile tugging at his lips. He nudges George’s hip with his toe. “Come lie down with me. I’m not kicking you out.”

Alex stomach drops when George twists around to face him, looking almost frozen with something that resembles fear. Alex props himself up on his elbows, frowning, concerned.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

George shakes his head and looks down, resting his hand over Alex’s shin. “That just felt — fast. It felt right, but Alex…”

Alex shakes his head and grabs hold of George’s bicep, pulling him back up to the top of the bed, pushing him down into the mattress.

“I meant everything I said tonight,” Alex promises. “I’ve been waiting for this. I’m OK. You OK?”

George nods, the smile returning to his face when Alex leans down for a kiss. He settles across George’s chest, his ear over his heart. George pulls the sheets and duvet over both of their bodies, cocooning them in against the chilled room. Alex cuddles in closer — this is good. _Really_ good. He’s almost forgotten how wonderful a warm body feels, wrapped around his own.

They’re both drifting off when Alex gives George a gentle kick under the covers.

“Hey. This probably goes without saying, but don’t go bragging around town about this, OK? Let’s just keep this between us?”

George nods, kissing his cheek, eyes still closed. “Of course.”

“You know, back in the day, that was a real concern.”

“The bragging?”

“The bragging,” Alex confirms, closing his eyes again and matching his breathing to George’s. “I had a bit of a reputation, you know. Very popular.”

George laughs, his chest vibrating under his cheek. He feels a hand cup the back of his skull, fingers massaging his scalp. “I’m sure you were. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

His vision is foggy, blurred around the edges. Yet he can see Eliza, her dark hair a wave over her shoulders, the very tip of her nose ruby-red from the sting of the cold. The twinkling Christmas lights and faces surrounding them are out of focus, and she’s the only thing in his world. The scent of the peppermint hot chocolate they bought on the way over is still thick in the air, on her breath when she skates over to kiss him, grabbing both his hands and intertwining their fingers to keep him balanced. 

There’s a sharp stab of dread as she skates away, the corners of his vision grow darker, and all he wants is for her to look over her shoulder, smile back at him. He knows this is a dream, somewhere in the back of his resting mind he knows this is too good to be true. All he wants to do is follow after her, call out her name, but he can’t bring himself to let go of the wall surrounding the rink. He watches her disappear into nothing. When he looks down he sees a trail of blood curling around his skates, dark red against the ice. 

Alex wakes up as the sun slowly creeps in through the curtains, casting a warm light across the bedroom. He tries to push the dream from his mind as he turns his head to look at George in the brightened room — he’s still sleeping, breathing evenly through slightly parted lips. Alex grimaces into his pillow as the memories of the previous night wash over him, the meaning of his nightmare becoming all too clear. He suddenly feels the need to shower, change the bedsheets so they won’t smell like George’s cologne.  Alex rolls over and away as his heart starts to pound in his throat. He’s not going to freak out — that’s not fair to George. He tries to focus, sort through every horrible thought crossing his mind, wonders if he’s feeling guilt or regret, or if the two are inseparable. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his face into his pillowcase, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

And then there’s a loud sigh behind him as George wakes, the bed creaking as he shifts his weight, a short pause before Alex feels a strong arm wrap around his waist. George drags him easily across the mattress, spooning up behind him and dropping a warm kiss on the nape of his neck. 

There’s an almost immediate relief from his building tension as George’s hand wanders low on his belly. This isn’t some stranger in his bed — this is _George_. Now, in his arms, Alex’s mind switches gears, wandering instead to how _good_ last night felt, how sweet and attentive George had been. In the heat of the moment, with Alex’s brain and body screaming for anything George could give him, it had almost felt unnecessary. But now, with the reality of it all hitting him like a truckload of bricks, he’s more than thankful for it. He feels…cared for. 

Alex snuggles in closer against his chest, a little disappointed when George doesn’t dip his hand under his waistband. Instead, he rests his palm flat against Alex’s stomach. He pushes his ass against George a little, not quite grinding, but the invitation is there. He could be up for a round two. George doesn’t reciprocate, seeming more concerned with pressing dry kisses onto the back of Alex’s neck and shoulders.

“You,” George mouths sleepily against his skin, voice deep and cracked, “are a very fitful sleeper. You kept pulling the blankets off of me.”

Alex twists around in George’s arms so he can look up at him. 

“Well, you were snoring right in my ear half the night,” he says, running his foot up and down George’s shin under the blankets. “I didn’t kick you though, did I? Eliza always…” he trails off, shakes his head and rolls over so his chest is against George’s. “I’m not very good at sharing a bed. Sorry.”

“It was worth it,” George shrugs, rubbing one broad hand up and down Alex’s back. He goes a bit lower, fingers ghosting over the swell of his ass, teasing. 

Alex flushes and tilts his chin up for a kiss. “What do you want to do for breakfast? There’re a few places we could walk to — ”

George cringes. “I don’t exactly have a change of clothes. Wearing a suit on a Saturday morning…”

Alex laughs into his chest, taking a moment to appreciate it in the morning light — hard and dark and muscled. He’s hit with a sudden urge to kiss and taste every inch of it. “You’re right. Let’s just stay in for breakfast.”

He wiggles an eyebrow suggestively, frowning when George rolls away and climbs off the bed. But it’s worth it — George stands at his full height, everything Alex missed the night before on full display. The cling of his boxer briefs over the muscled curve of his ass, the defined chest, the bulky thighs that probably amount to two of his own. Alex wants to pull the blankets over his head — he’s seen better days. He waits until George disappears into the bathroom before crawling out of bed.

Flattening his hair in the bedroom mirror is pointless, so he cranes his neck to one side and then the other to make sure George didn’t leave any marks — he didn’t. Smart man. Alex has never worn a nonfunctional scarf in his life, and he’s not about to start. He hears the toilet flush, the sink running, before George comes back out into the bedroom, looking Alex up and down with a smile. But even in his own boxers and undershirt, he feels incredibly exposed. He returns George’s smile uncertainly.

“I could stand to gain, like, 20 pounds,” he shrugs, glancing off sideways. “This is not how I usually…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, looks back at George and smiles a little wider when George leans down to kiss his neck, first, then his lips. 

“Give it time,” George says softly. “I think you look fine, for what it’s worth.”

Alex makes them cinnamon berry breakfast crepes, smiling proudly when George hums happily around his first bite. They split a pot of coffee while George checks his phone and Alex boots up his laptop, scrolling through a worryingly long list of unopened emails. It can wait. It’s still technically a holiday weekend, and George — sitting at his kitchen table, still bare-chested — has turned out to be a _great_ distraction. 

“What do you want to do today?” Alex asks, stretching his arms above his head. “We could run back to your place for a change of clothes and spend the day in the city? I’m also not opposed to staying holed up in here…”

George looks down into his coffee mug. “I wish I could. But I have a lot of work to catch up on at home.”

“Oh,” Alex says, trying to mask his disappointment, pushing a halved strawberry across his plate with his fork. He can’t help but feel a little annoyed. Since when does George work over the weekends?

“I usually try not to take my work home,” George says, answering his question. “But Conway’s case is going to trial, and even though it’s likely he’ll plead guilty beforehand….I still need to have all my ducks in a row.”

Alex just nods. It’s a solid excuse, it’s just bad timing — it’s fine. They had a nice morning, at least. The kids will be back tomorrow afternoon, anyway, and that’ll present entirely new challenges. He can’t get too used to this. 

He watches George take their dirty plates and mugs to the sink and follows him over, crowding up behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist.

“When do you have to go?” Alex asks. He doesn’t want to sound needy, but he’s also eager to get George back into bed for at least another hour or so, doesn’t think it’ll take a lot of persuasion. He kisses between his bare shoulder blades — he smells like sweat. He grins against George’s skin, another idea popping into his brain. “Let’s at least get in the shower first.”

George chuckles and turns around, holding Alex’s face in his hands. Alex holds his breath as he feels George’s thumb run over his lower lip, his cock stirring with interest. He’d skip the shower and suck George off right in the middle of the kitchen, if that’s what George wanted. He doesn’t dare say it out loud, though — he still wants George to think he has at least a _little_ class. But George is returning his hungry look with just as much fervor. It’s gone when he shakes his head, stepping aside.

“I need to head out now. Sorry.”

He leaves in his wrinkled suit, but not before kissing Alex deeply at the door, a kiss that’s an apology and a promise all at once, leaving him breathless and desperate and wanting as he watches George climb into his cab.  

So this is happening. He had sex — is going to continue having sex — with this man he’s known for about a month. It’s fine — he’s done a lot more with people he’s known for an evening. But he can’t help but be a little startled by how much his body has responded to George, the way nearly a year’s worth of repressed desires and urges have hit him all at once. 

Then again, he always has had a healthy sexual appetite. 

He takes a long shower, scrubbing the smell of sex and sweat from his skin before camping out with his laptop at the kitchen island. To his relief, he finds an email from Jefferson’s assistant about halfway through the growing pile of unread messages, confirming a time for their interview and a photoshoot. Alex will have to go out to Columbia, but he’s more than fine with it if that means it’ll just be _done._ He’s not about to try and negotiate a meeting spot halfway if it’s taken this long to even earn a spot on Jefferson’s calendar.

He confirms the time and keeps scrolling — spam, spam, can wait until Monday, more spam — until he stumbles on a new email from John. He opens it immediately, frowning.

 

**_Subject: Happy Thanksgiving_ **

_Alex,_

_You said we could keep in touch, so here’s me keeping up my end of the bargain. I hope you and your kids had a nice Thanksgiving. I’m sure it wasn’t easy._

_Dad and mom say hi, too. They were really happy to hear we met up. Which leads me to my next point: sorry. I didn’t actually get around to apologizing did I? Anyway, I was really out of line that night. Sometimes it feels like our friendship is just a series of mistakes, one after the other, and I don’t want it to be like that anymore. I’m assuming you’re still up for trying to make this work, of course._

_Hope to hear from you,_

_John_

 

John has no idea how important that night turned out to be, Alex thinks, as he reads the email over a second time. He’s tempted to bring it up as he types out a reply, but he asked George to keep what happened a secret, between them. John may be far removed from his own life, but he doesn’t want to take any risks. 

He wastes the day away getting a head start on next week’s deadlines — it’s a hell of a way to spend a free weekend, but he’s afraid to let his mind wander. He doesn’t want to fixate on George, knows that’ll lead to overthinking the past twenty four hours. He doesn’t want a repeat of the morning. Once he’s knocked out some of his own work, he goes through a few intern evaluation forms. The the sun has already set when he finally closes his laptop and looks around the empty living room. It’s too quiet without the kids around. He doesn’t like the quiet. 

A quick look at his phone shows George hasn’t texted him all day — and he’s _not_ doing this. He’s a grown man. They both are. Yet as he tosses and turns in his empty bed, he decides to test the waters. He types out a text to George, squinting against the harsh light of his iPhone’s screen.

_Hope you’re not working too hard tonight. Have a good night._

He dozes off for a few minutes before his phone vibrates next to his ear.

_Still finishing up a couple things. Going to sleep?_

_Trying to. House is too quiet,_ he types back, hoping it has the desired effect

It does. Not a minute later, a new message pops up.

_You can come over, if you want. I’ll be heading to bed soon._

Alex is out of bed, tugging on his jeans before he even finishes reading.

—

He finds George seated in the middle of his living room, dressed in a navy blue University of Virginia T-shirt and sweatpants. He’s surrounded by piles of papers, his MacBook Air open on the floor in front of him, a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. 

It’s...a lot to take in. Alex realizes he’s staring when George shakes his head and huffs out a laugh, turning back to his laptop.

“Sorry about all this,” he says over the click of his keyboard. “This is usually something I’d do in my office, but there were so many files, reports…I needed to spread it all out.”

Alex sits across from him on the floor, cross-legged. He curiously flips over a police report, spots the names _Thomas Conway_ and _Charles Lee_ in the header. He goes to the next page to read the arrest report, but stops when he feels George’s gaze on him. 

“Sorry,” Alex apologizes immediately, but George shakes his head.

“It’s fine. I trust you. Not all of this is public record, though, so just…”

Alex nods. “Burr would murder me if he knew about this. Who’s Charles Lee?”

“An accomplice of Conway’s,” George says around a yawn, adjusting his glasses. “Or, at least, that’s what I believe — he has quite the rap sheet. There wasn’t enough evidence to hold him so we had to let him go. Conway’s attorney wanted to use him as a witness, but he’s gone completely off the grid.”

Alex pages through the report, frowning. “Gang related, right?”

“Considering the victims and who’s involved…” George shakes his head, sighs. “That’s what it points to. Lee’s always been a tough one to pin down. But if we can lock Conway up, it’s better than no one.”

He returns the report to its stack and turns back to George. Any hope he’d had for a repeat of last night is dashed — he looks exhausted. 

“Can I help you with anything?” he asks, shrugging. Figures he might as well make himself useful. “I don’t know the case, but there’s got to be something…?”

“You could look over my opening statement?” George suggests, nodding down at his laptop. “Let me know your thoughts?”

Alex nods eagerly, setting up George’s laptop on the floor and settling onto his stomach. He reads over the statement while George grabs a pen and a file folder, leaning his back against the couch and flipping through it, sighing loudly through his nose every few minutes. 

The opening statement is nearly flawless. Alex corrects a few typos, rewrites a few sentences to help with the flow and transitions — it’s clear George isn’t much of a writer but he’s been doing this for years and it shows. He minimizes the Word document as soon as he’s finished to get a look at George’s desktop photo — it’s him, Martha, Lafayette and Adrienne standing on a white beach, dressed in sarongs, shorts and sunglasses. Must be the Hamptons. Alex rolls his eyes. Of course they all vacation together. 

George is still frowning down at his work, so Alex closes George’s laptop and sprawls out across the plush carpet, dozing off to the sounds of shuffling papers and a scribbling pen. He doesn’t know how long he’s out before a socked foot gently nudges his side. George is standing over him, smiling down.

“Come on, it’s almost one in the morning,” he crouches down and holds out his hand. “Ready for bed?”

He grabs hold of George’s hand and lets him pull him up to his feet, heart fluttering when George doesn’t let go. Instead, he leads him all the way into the darkened bedroom to an upholstered California king that Alex immediately falls face-first into, peeling off his jeans and tossing them onto the floor.

It’s definitely the nicest bed he’s ever been in — that much is true. He hugs one of the silky pillowcases against his chest and watches George pull off his T-shirt and set his glasses on the nightstand before climbing in next to him, arm muscles flexing as he adjusts the pillows before settling in. Alex’s gaze drops down to the pronounced bulge in his sweatpants, letting out a little huff of disappointment when George drags the duvet over both of their bodies. In the morning, he decides, yawning, he’s definitely getting a better look. When did he get so fucking _old?_

George rolls him over onto his side, fitting Alex against his chest — just as he held him that morning. He goes limp in his arms. Life will start again tomorrow, but just for tonight he’s able to switch off his mind — forget about whatever lies ahead. Because here, he feels safe.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!

The kids return Sunday afternoon and the work week crawls by, mostly without incident. The office is unnaturally quiet following the holiday — that’s usually when Alex gets the most work done. Yet, he finds focusing nearly impossible. 

He doesn’t take his lunches with George all week — he only catches bits of George’s phone conversations with Burr when he briefs him on the Conway trial preparations and dodges Burr’s prying questions. It makes Alex just the slightest bit jealous. How else is he supposed to react when his texts to George go unreturned in favor of responding to Burr’s voicemails? He knows it’s just part of George’s job — he’s drowning in work. Replying to Alex’s text messages is certainly the last item on his to-do list.

The memories of Sunday morning don’t help. George had teased and played with him until Alex had practically melted into the mattress with kiss-bitten lips, desperate and crying for more. He knows _exactly_ that George is doing — could see it in his eyes afterward, when George had brushed his hair out of his face and held Alex tight against his chest, breathed with him as they both spiraled down. George is seeing how much he can handle. He’s giving him a chance to take a step back and run away if he needs to. But all Alex wants to do is run forward, let George have him however he wants. He feels ignited, like his body is burning from within. George’s distance combined with everything Alex craves from him…it’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his mind. His nights are spent imagining everything George has yet to give him, relying solely on the memory of his scent and the heavy weight of his body while he pretends his own hand and fingers belong to George.

He just wants to be _fucked._

It’s not until Friday evening that George agrees to come to Park Slope for dinner. Alex decides on something simple, just a garden vegetable lasagna, soup and salad that Angelica helps him prepare after work while Angie reads her Kindle at the kitchen table and Will brings out his LEGO set in anticipation of George’s arrival. He’s glad they’re back. As much as he enjoyed a free weekend spent with George, those two nights don’t compare to the relief of knowing his children are safe with him at home.

“I think you had the right idea,” Angelica tells him suddenly, right in the middle of chopping a cucumber on the countertop. “About not going back to Albany for the holidays, that is. We can start our own traditions. It’s just not the same anymore.”

Alex says nothing, a little caught off guard. She hasn’t had much to say about their trip since her return. Meanwhile, Angie and Will had seemed content — if not indifferent — to spending the weekend with their cousins. He knows Albany is already a bit of a sore spot for Angelica — that she’s long fallen out of love with where she grew up, though the obligation and expectation to return still chases her. Add that on to everything that’s happened this year, he can’t blame her for coming back feeling disenchanted. 

“I knew what it would be like, going back there,” he says. “Too many memories, you know?”

“I really did think it would help,” she says, more to herself than to Alex. “And it’s not just Eliza. With mom and dad gone…it’s not my home. Honestly, the only thing last weekend was good for was reminding me why I left.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Alex says, opening the oven to check on the lasagna. The cheese is already browning and bubbling, so he grabs an oven mitt and pulls out the tray, setting it on top of the stove. He lifts up one of the noodles with a fork. No mushrooms. He remembered that — the time George ordered a stirfry at lunch and asked for the dish to be prepared without them. “It seemed like you had fun at George’s, at least. Martha and Adrienne loved you.”

Angelica smiles at that. “It’s been over a week.” And then, off of Alex’s questioning look, “Since we’ve seen him. That’s a long time for you two.”

There’s no heat behind it, it’s not accusatory, but it still makes Alex bristle from the aftershocks of her previous lecture. There’s no way he can confide in Angelica about his weekend. Not when _he’s_ still mentally sorting through what it all means.

“Yeah, well, he’s been really busy,” Alex says evenly with just the slightest quirk of a smile. “This’ll be fun, I think, with just the five of us.”

George arrives early, glasses on with a distinctive heaviness surrounding him. Alex shoots him a sympathetic look, feeling a bit ashamed by the petty jealousy and insecurity he’s felt all week, when it’s clear George would likely much rather be at home and in bed than here. He seems to forget himself for a moment when he hugs Alex at the door, giving his hip a tight squeeze. Alex almost laughs out of pure horror when he pulls Angelica into an awkward embrace to make up for it. Thankfully, Will races over to meet him, immediately grabbing George’s hand and dragging him over to the awaiting LEGOs.

“Ten minutes,” Alex calls after them, stern. “Or the food’ll get cold.”

He claims the seat next to George’s once everyone’s gathered in the dining room, purposefully knocking their knees together under the table as George progressively livens up and becomes more like himself. He thinks he’s doing a fine job of keeping himself together until George drops his hand without warning, his fingers just barely brushing the top of Alex’s thigh. He jumps – it’s just the slightest twitch of his shoulders. Angelica raises a thin eyebrow.

“Are you planning anything special for Christmas?” George asks, clearing his throat and piling more salad on his plate, pointedly ignoring Alex as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. 

“I always take Angie and Will to Disney World for part of their Christmas break,” Angelica says, winking playfully at Angie. “Other than that, I think we’re going to stay in the city.”

“My friends and I go ice skating a lot,” Angie pipes up, earning a warm smile from George. “By the way, dad, I’m going to need new skates.”

“I’m sure you’ve been to over to Bryant Park, then,” George says. And Alex’s hand tightens around his fork in a death grip. He knows what’s coming before the words even leave George’s mouth. “Your dad and I were just by that area on Friday. It seems like the crowd’s already picking up.”

Alex kicks George under the table as Angelica looks up from her plate, eyes widening with realization. Alex withers a little under her stare. She knows. She doesn’t know _what_ she knows, but nonetheless — he’ll undoubtedly hear about this later.

“We’ll go shopping for new ice skates this weekend,” Alex says too quickly, smiling a little too widely at Angie. “Now, what do you guys say we break out the wine for the grownups?”

— 

A few glasses of wine later, and Alex feels at ease for the remainder of the evening. Angelica leaves soon after dinner, giving George an amiable kiss on the cheek and a goodbye hug. The gesture, he knows, is likely prompted by her buzz from the red wine, yet he’s still relieved that their night seems to be ending smoothly. The last thing he needed was a post-dinner showdown with his sister-in-law over who he chooses to spend his time with. 

It doesn’t stop Alex from calling George out, though. He waits patiently until Angie and Will have left to go upstairs, leaving them behind to take care of the dishes

“What was that?” Alex demands, turning on the sink and letting the water run in an attempt to muffle their voices. He braces himself. They’ve never had a disagreement before — he doesn’t know what George’ll be like. He takes a deep breath. “Angelica specifically asked if I had plans before she left and I kind of, actually, lied to her. Literally _right_ before you came over she made a comment about how we haven’t seen each other since Thanksgiving, and I didn’t correct her. She’s going to find out, George.”

If George is unnerved, he doesn’t show it. He just shoves his hands deep in his pockets and waits.

“The two of us grabbing dinner, going out — that’s not exactly news to her,” George points out calmly once Alex has finished. “How am I supposed to know what’s off limits if you don’t warn me beforehand?”

Alex rolls his eyes. He actually has a point.

“You’re right,” he says through gritted teeth. “I should’ve told you. It’s just…before we spent Thanksgiving together she asked what was going on with us and basically gave me this hypocritical lecture about sleeping with you. Which I wasn’t doing at the time, but now…I mean, you see the problem here, right?”

“Hey,” George says, quiet and sweet. It almost makes Alex feel guilty. George steps forward, crowding him up a bit against the counter and running a hand over his shoulder. He starts tracing soothing circles with the tip of his finger, through the cotton fabric of Alex’s shirt. “Tell her whatever you need to tell her. Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

The edge of the counter is pressed into the small of his back, and with George towering over him, dark eyes warm and filled with genuine concern, Alex softens. 

“I can take care of it,” Alex says, pushing himself up on the balls of his feet for a quick peck. His eyes instinctively dart toward the top of the staircase — this is one downside to an open floorpan that he never quite considered. The kids could come running around the corner at any second. “I’ll just tell her we made plans for Friday at the last minute.”

She’ll see right through it, though. He supposes it was only a matter of time — he just wishes they’d been able to play it off for longer than a week. At least, he thinks, Angelica seems to like George. He hopes that’ll soften the blow. When it comes down to it they both know he’s perfectly capable of making his own choices. He’s had more than his share of people telling him what to do with himself, how to mourn, and no one knows that quite like Angelica does.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Alex says with a shake of his head. “You seemed stressed earlier. Long week?”

George’s laugh is strained as he steps away from Alex, grabbing his stemless wine glass off the kitchen island and helping himself to what’s left of the cabernet. 

“Well, I’m certainly glad this week is over,” he says cryptically before fixing Alex with a heated, dark gaze. The temperature in the room seems to shift. Something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. “And I missed you”

Alex’s breath hitches. He nods wordlessly. 

“I missed you, too,” he says once he finds his voice again. George looks wary as Alex steps toward him. The sink is still running, the sound filling the otherwise silent house. “I’ve been thinking, about everything that happened last weekend…”

They come together like magnets, George suddenly holding him still and steady as he dips down to kiss him, one hand cupping the back of his head and guiding him in deeper. And then George stops to grab under his thighs, hoisting him up — and Alex goes with the momentum, letting George help him so he’s sitting on top of the island, the emptied bottle of cabernet pushed to the side. George fits between the spread of his thighs, keeps his hands low on Alex’s belly as he peppers his face with more kisses, the scent of wine heavy on his breath.

A low whine escapes his lips and he twists away, letting George kiss along the length of his neck instead. “You could stay,” Alex says breathlessly, hooking his ankles behind George’s back and staring up at the ceiling, the edges of his vision blurring from the building pleasure. He’s not even registering his own words. “If you want. I’ll make sure Angie and Will are in bed — ”

George sighs, lips still fire-hot against his throat. “We shouldn’t. I don’t want it to be like that — not with your kids in the house.”

He drums his fingers along the back of George’s neck thoughtfully. He has a point. It wouldn’t be right to do this with his kids one floor above them, but there’s a small problem — they’re almost _always_ around. He and Eliza miraculously got away with it, but with George there’s the added guilt of the secrecy, the sneaking around.

He doesn’t want it to happen this way, either.

“I can’t make promises,” Alex says softly. He gently digs his heel into George’s ass, grinning when George’s eyelids flutter shut, his lips parting in a silent moan. “But maybe I can try to figure something out next weekend — get at least one free night together…it’s just hard. You being my babysitter and everything.”

“I wouldn’t write Angelica off completely,” George says carefully, giving Alex’s hip a playful slap in response to his glare. “It’s entirely possible she didn’t even notice, don’t you think? She seemed perfectly fine when she left.”

Alex laughs, thumbing off a bit of the plum lipstick Angelica left behind on George’s cheekbone. “You have a lot to learn about my sister. Nothing gets by her.”

George’s face falls. He shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.”

Alex nods. They will. They’ll have to.

“In the meantime, we have lunch breaks…after work happy hours…” he wiggles an eyebrow, straightening his spine when George starts rubbing his hands up and down Alex’s waist. Alex leans in, breathes against the shell of his ear, drops his voice. “I’m OK with something quick every now and then. But what I really want…I want you to _fuck_ me.”

He feels George tense against him. And then, lower and deeper than Alex, in a rumbling tone that sends chills straight down his spine and makes him impossibly harder, George whispers back, “Not yet.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm[a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!_

_Goodnight. I can find some time for lunch tomorrow if you can. I missed you this weekend._

Strange, Alex thinks as his phone vibrates across the bathroom sink. George doesn’t often text first – not that they text much to begin with. Still. It’s nice. He bites back a smile, switching away from his messages briefly to read a new email after his inbox updates. Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. He switches back to his text messages and types out a response with one hand, brushing his teeth with the other.

_Lunch sounds great. I meant what I said on Friday. I’m going to ask Angelica if she’ll watch the kids for an evening sometime this week._

His thumb hovers over the send button for a moment and he gets an idea, almost laughs out loud at the ridiculousness and, frankly, the immaturity of it. George, he knows, doesn’t have _much_ of a sense of humor but it’s got to be buried in there, somewhere. Grinning, he tacks on an eggplant emoji at the end of his message. Might as well put it out there, he thinks, as he strips down and climbs into the shower.

He falls asleep late but doesn’t rest for long. Alex hears Will before he sees him — it’s the soft pitter-patter of bare feet right outside the bedroom door that gives him away. He pushes himself onto his elbows, his jaw stretching out around a yawn. Will’s small shadow hovers in the doorway. 

“Honey, what are you doing up? You have school tomorrow. It’s — ” a quick glance at the alarm clock tells him it’s 2:33 a.m. He blinks sleepily, switching on his bedside lamp.

He’s met with the too-familiar sight of his son’s red, tear-streaked face. Alex’s own chest tightens, his hands fisting anxiously in his duvet cover. It’s been a while — months, even — since Will has come to him like this. But he knows. It’s always the same. 

“Sweetie,” Alex says softly, but that only makes Will sniffle louder and rub at his eyes with the back of a trembling hand. Alex pushes back his blankets and moves over, letting Will crawl in next to him.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” Will says, fresh tears spilling onto his cheeks. “I know I’m too old — ”

“No you’re not,” Alex says, thumbing away his tears and pulling him into a tight hug. He realizes, now, it’s probably for the best George has opted out of sneaking in and sleeping over. It’s more effort than it’s worth — coming over late and leaving early, never knowing when the kids will need him in the middle of the night, or who will wake up first. “You want to talk about it, big guy?”

“Um,” Will swallows, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Alex reaches over him, switches off the light. “In my dream, Philip was home.”

Alex blinks up at the ceiling, lips twisting into a frown. Fuck. He hugs Will a little tighter. 

“Yeah?” Alex asks, voice cracking. He can’t imagine how confusing everything’s been for Will, whose concept and understanding of death is still forming. With Philip moving out for college one day, still coming home for dinner when he can, and then gone forever the next. The thought of glimpsing inside his son’s mind makes him ill. 

“I know he’s in heaven,” Will says. “But I wish we could see him again. And mommy.”

Alex’s next breath comes out more like a dry sob. He buries his nose in his son’s curls. Will doesn’t seem to notice. He wraps his arms around Alex’s middle, squeezing and resting his cheek on Alex’s chest. They fall asleep like that — Will drifts off first, his jaw slack, drool trailing down his chin. Alex loses track of time staring up at the ceiling, the light from the street lamps flickering through the curtains. He puts a hand on the back of his son’s head, and breathes.

— 

Despite everything, he wakes up earlier than usual. His eyelids feel heavy, his muscles ache — he’s far too old to function on only a handful of hours of sleep. Will’s still passed out next to him with an arm slung over his eyes.

Last night’s memories feel like nothing more than a dream. He pushes past them for now, grabbing his phone from under his pillow to do his usual morning read-through of his emails. He expects to find a message from George waiting for him on his lock screen. He doesn’t. Odd. He’ll have to check in once he gets to the office.

Eventually he rolls out of bed and goes about his usual morning routine — makes breakfast, packs Angie’s and Will’s lunches, gives them goodbye kisses and gets them to school on time. Burr’s not at his desk when Alex walks in, just Angelica taking a call, her phone cradled on her shoulder. She doesn’t smile back when Alex waves and mouths a quick “good morning.”  


A few minutes pass before she places the phone back in the receiver with a little more force than necessary. Alex is reading through his emails — a couple photo requests he’s been waiting on, confirmation for his interview with Jefferson later in the week — when Angelica walks over to his desk, iPhone clutched in one hand, the click of her heels filling the small office.

“What,” she says, putting the phone face-up on Alex’s desk, next to his laptop, “is this?”

His text message to George stares back up at him. Eggplant emoji and all.

“Uh,” Alex says quietly, eyes flickering from the phone to Angelica. “How did you get this?”

“You sent it to me, dumbass.”

“Angelica – ”

Angelica holds up her hands, signaling for him to stop before falling into the chair next to his desk.

“I’m not mad.”

“Are you sure?” Alex asks warily. “You seem mad.”

“Well, I was last night,” Angelica admits. “But I had time to think about it, and obviously I wish I’d found out another way…but I know I didn’t exactly make it easy for you.”

“It’s really early,” Alex says carefully, keeping his voice low, though there’s no one else in the office. “ _I’m_ still adjusting to it. It happened, um, that weekend you and the kids were gone. As I’m sure you already guessed.”

“Are you planning on telling the kids? We should have a plan for that,” Angelica says “The eggplant was very classy, by the way.”

“Telling the kids…?”

“That you have a boyfriend?” Alex grimaces and Angelica’s eyes narrow. “He is your boyfriend.”

He rolls his chair a couple inches away from Angelica. “Not exactly?”

There are a couple seconds of awkward silence before it’s Angelica’s turn to look away. She shakes her head. “So you’re doing exactly what I asked you not to do.”

“All right,” Alex says, keeping his voice level. “Take a good look at me, Angelica. No one’s been knocking down my door lately. I’m not exactly an object of desire right now, so I don’t think George was tempted by my allure. I don’t think he heard ‘widower, single father of two’ and thought ‘I’m going to fuck that guy.’ But he’s cared about me and the kids from the get-go, I mean, I had to find out through Martha. He wasn’t planing to tell me how he felt.”

Angelica says nothing, so he keeps talking. He knows what this is — it’s pushing off what she used to do with Eliza onto him – the disapproving yet nurturing, wise big sister approach. She’s well-meaning. He gets it, and with the exception of his children she’s the closest thing he has to family. But he won’t — can’t — let her walk all over him like he’s too damaged to know better. 

“It’s not a sex thing – I mean, it _is_ , but it isn’t. We’re on the same page and we trust each other. We talk. And I think that if either of us felt uncomfortable or needed to walk away from it, things would be OK. We’d still be friends. We’re both adults. We can handle this.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Angelica’s face. “I know there’s no stopping you, or convincing you otherwise – and I like George a lot. I mean that. He’s a good guy and I can tell he cares about you. But these…relationships. They don’t last forever. People get hurt.”

Alex nods, watching her carefully. But her expression remains perfectly still, unreadable. “Just have a little faith in me, please?”

“OK,” Angelica says after a moment, picking her phone up off the desk. “Just…talk to me if you need to. Don’t shut me out, please?”

Alex shoots her a half-smile before she walks away. His phone lights up with a new message from George.

_Haven’t heard from you. Lunch?_

Alex groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hand. This is not the conversation he wanted to have over lunch. 

—

He picks up Vietnamese takeout before booking it to the District Attorney’s Office, feeling thankful that lunch breaks at the _Gazette_ are somewhat flexible — lots of employees go out before or after interviews and meetings if it’s convenient, so no one’s going to miss him this one time. But he knows his job, and he knows better than to push it.

The security guard — an unfriendly man about George’s height, but not nearly as handsome. Generic, square jaw — spends a little too much time waving the metal detector wand up and down his legs and across his torso. He knows this because two other visitors pass him before he’s asked to step to the side and asked to open his takeout bag. 

“It’s food,” Alex says, frustrated, rolling the top of the bag open. “I’m eating lunch with a friend.”

The guard glances inside the bag, disinterested. “Who are you visiting? I’ll need your name, too.”

“Alex Hamilton? I’m visiting George Washington, he’s the Chief Assistant District Attorney…?” Alex whips out his phone with his free hand. “I can literally call him if you don’t believe me.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll walk you to his office.”

Alex senses he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. He steps inside the elevator with the security guard, stomach growling as the smell of his lunch wafts out of the bag. 

They find George’s office tucked away in a corner, the door wide open and George waiting for his arrival. The space, Alex realizes, is a little bigger than the office he shares with two other people. There’s nothing particularly exciting about it, though — a large oak desk, George’s degrees framed and mounted on the wall, a short bookshelf, a stiff, leather couch. There’s classical music playing softly from a Bluetooth speaker on top of the bookshelf. Vivaldi, Bach, Beethoven — it all sounds the same to Alex. There’s one personal picture on George’s desk — he looks very young in it, standing in front of Big Ben with an arm around a slightly older man. Related to him, judging by the heavy brows and identical smiles. The brother who passed away, he thinks. The one George mentioned over dinner.

“Mr. Washington?” the guard says when George stands up from his desk, frowning. “An Alex Hamilton here to see you? Were you expecting him?”

“Yes,” George says slowly, crossing the office and taking the carryout bag from Alex, laying a protective hand on his shoulder. “He’s my visitor. Is there a reason you felt the need to escort him to my office, young man?”

“Only doing my job, sir,” the guard stammers, shrinking under George’s scathing glare. He steps out with a quick nod, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

The soft music fills the quiet office for a few long moments before Alex speaks up.

“Sorry, but was I just _racially profiled_ by a rent-a-cop?”

“That wasn’t OK,” George says, a hint of undisguised anger edging his voice. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’ll take care of it.”

“But what — ?”

“They’ve upped security here, with the Conway trial right around the corner…it’s not completely unusual. But that was uncalled for. Are you all right?”

Alex gives him a grim smile. So Conway, Lee — Latino men. Great. Alex doesn’t think he looks like much of a threat, wearing his khaki pants and a press badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. He manages what he hopes is a persuasive smile.

“I’m fine,” he answers, shrugging a shoulder. He pulls George’s hand off his shoulder, running his thumb over George’s knuckles before dropping it entirely. “And, Jesus, what about you — are you safe?”

“The extra security is just a precaution,” George explains with a dismissive wave of his hand. It still doesn’t sit well with Alex. “These types of cases…it’s nothing to lose sleep over. We over-prepare, nothing ever happens.”

Alex looks up at him, unconvinced. George just smiles, cupping the back of Alex’s head to hold him steady as he presses a firm kiss to his forehead. “I’ve been doing this for years, Alex. Trust me.”

They eat their lunch at George’s desk, splitting each of their dishes — George sitting in his own chair and Alex seated directly across from him. He half-expects George to work over lunch, switching his focus between Alex and his computer. But George gives him his full attention, letting calls go to voicemail and barely flinching when his email inbox dings with updates. It takes a few minutes before Alex realizes George is openly staring at him, indiscreetly watching his mouth whenever he speaks or wraps his lips around his fork. Alex smirks. The tables have certainly turned. 

“Your office,” Alex says, making a point of looking around, leaning back in his upholstered chair with a grin. “It’s very…private.”

“It’s also where I work,” George says with firm finality, not missing a beat. Alex huffs out a laugh. That’s off the table, then. Fair enough.

“Is that why you wanted to come here for lunch instead of going out?” George asks, softening a little, amused. “Alex.”

“Actually,” Alex says with a sigh. He’d almost forgotten the real reason he wanted some privacy. “I told Angelica. Well, I didn’t tell her. I sent her a text message that was originally meant for you, and was then subsequently forced to tell her. It had the eggplant emoji and everything.”

He sees a look of confusion pass over George’s face. George shakes his head. “Is she…?”

“It could’ve gone a lot worse,” Alex shrugs, popping a piece of broccoli into his mouth. “I think she still needs to warm up to the idea of it a little bit.” _Especially since we’re not dating,_ he thinks. He doesn’t want to say it, though. One awkward conversation is enough for the day. “Obviously it’s not ideal, but I almost feel better with her knowing. I’ve never really been good at the whole sneaking around thing. Just ask some of my college flings.”

George furrows his brow, almost comments but moves on with a wave of his hand. “As long as you’re fine, I’m fine.”

“I’m very much fine.”

George smiles at that. He cleans up their lunch and tosses the empty containers into the bin next to his desk. A signal that lunch has ended. They both need to get back to work. 

“What’s an eggplant emoji?” George asks as he picks up Alex’s messenger bag, placing the strap over his head, making sure it’s snug on his shoulder, hands lingering a bit longer than necessary. Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. He starts laughing. The blank look on George’s face only makes him laugh harder.

“Oh, swee- _George_ ,” Alex catches himself, a little alarmed by the slip. “You clearly never raised a teenager.”

“Obviously not.”

He seems a little miffed, so Alex pulls out his phone and shows him the text. Lets him read it a couple times. 

“It’s symbolic,” Alex mutters, a little pained. He didn’t think it’d take this much effort. 

George shrugs.

“OK,” Alex says, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “Accompanied with a text about making _evening plans_ …” 

George lets out an exaggerated groan, realizing. “Alex.”

“See, and now you’re going to judge me,” Alex snickers, pocketing his phone. He checks his wristwatch and sighs. It’s well past time to head back to the office. “So. Are you at least going to give me a goodbye kiss, or is there no fun of any kind allowed in your workspace?”

He inhales sharply when George’s eyes darken, one large hand reaching up to press into his cheek. “There are always exceptions to the rules.”

Alex hums against George’s lips happily, gently digging what’s left of his chewed fingernails into the back of George’s neck. He feels rather than hears George’s breath hitch, warm tongue slipping between his lips while his hands wander down, giving the meat of his ass a tight squeeze, the combination jolting Alex’s hips forward involuntarily. He ducks his head and flushes, pressing his forehead into George’s collarbone.

“It’s been over a week,” Alex groans into George’s shirt before looking up at him. His hands fist into George’s suit jacket, wrinkling the fabric. “I want…”

“Me too,” George assures him, nearly knocking Alex over with the force of his next kiss.

Alex takes the elevator much later, messenger bag strategically placed in front of his crotch, hair tangled, shirt untucked. He types out a text to Angelica as he rubs at his bottom lip, sore from George’s teeth.

_We never discussed. This week. Any free evenings?_


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm[a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!_

He meets Jefferson for lunch at a Pret a Manger in Lower Manhattan. He’s late, but that’s to be expected, so Alex orders his chicken and bacon sandwich, a black coffee and finds a table for two. He’s chewing on the last bite of his sandwich when the door swings open and Jefferson arrives, greeting him with a bored wave before joining the line to order his own food.

“Alexander,” he says, walking up behind his chair with a lobster salad in tow. He rests a hand on his shoulder, too familiar for what they are, and takes his seat across from Alex. “Thank you for adjusting your schedule. You understand.”

Alex scrunches up his nose with a forced smile, keeping his eyes on his laptop screen as he scrolls through his questions. Jefferson’s assistant had rescheduled their interview (and cut their time in half) at the last minute to accommodate another (apparently more important) commitment in the East Village. In truth, Alex doesn’t have much on his plate today. Meeting Jefferson in Lower Manhattan instead of the university, in the afternoon instead of mid-morning — the change barely phased him. But he can tell that Jefferson is eagerly searching for some sign of annoyance or resentment. He can scarcely believe they’re in their forties and still playing these games.

“I have a meeting a few blocks away after lunch, anyways,” Alex says, smile still intact. It’s not so much a meeting as it is running a takeout lunch to George’s office to ensure he eats a proper meal in the middle of his trial prep. (That’s technically Lafayette’s job, Alex knows, but he’s in the area. Might as well. Even if he only gets to see him for a few minutes, he can already tell he’s going to need a bit of a pick-me-up.)

Jefferson pops a bite of salad into his mouth. The wet sound of his lips smacking together makes Alex squirm in his chair. “How are the children?”

“We both have places to be, so let’s save catching up for another day,” Alex says, a little more curt than he initially intended. He’s pretty certain he’d rather throw himself into rush hour traffic than listen to Jefferson drawl on with his mouth stuffed full of romaine lettuce. It’s about a 30 column inch article, maybe 800 words. He can do this interview in 20 minutes, easy.

He opens up the audio recorder on his laptop, ignoring Jefferson’s exaggerated scoff. He clicks record. “To start off then, for the purposes of this article — Tom, Tommy, Thomas?”

“Thomas.”

“Fantastic. Just covering my bases,” he says as a flash of annoyance crosses Jefferson’s face. Alex digs his teeth into his lower lip, holding back a smile. “What’s it like, returning to your alma mater as its youngest president? How does it differ from your four year stint as the University of Virginia’s Chief Operating Officer?”

“ _Executive Vice President and_ Chief Operating Officer,” Jefferson clarifies. “While it was an absolute joy to spend four years in my home state, Columbia’s offer was one I couldn’t refuse.”

 _Great, here we go._ Alex nods attentively, fake smile in place.

“Not only was the position a step up, but it also gave me the opportunity to return to the friends I’ve made here,” Jefferson continues. “And — off the record, Alexander — the women in Charlottesville just don’t compare.”

“Mmm,” Alex hums, careful not to react as he makes a note, a brief flurry of fingers across the keyboard. Jefferson frowns.

“You got all of that?”

“Well, yeah. I’m recording, I just take notes as a failsafe, you know, if the file gets fucked up or something. J-School 101.”

“I didn’t give you permission to record,” Jefferson huffs, loud enough to earn them both a look from the couple at the table next to them. “Don’t they teach you manners in journalism school?”

“Were you planning on saying something incriminating?” Alex fires back. “Because I don’t tend to ask any leading questions when I’m working on bullshit fluff pieces.”

Jefferson leans back in his chair, ready to play. “I thought you would’ve mellowed out a little by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word around town is you’re George Washington’s newest bedwarmer — which, I must say, is quite the step up the social ladder for you. Why stop with a Schuyler sister?”

The taste of his chicken and bacon sandwich rises in his throat. Alex has trained himself to pick his battles with Jefferson — it was a lesson that took years to learn, even after his wife had pulled Alex aside at their own engagement party, a delicate hand resting over his chest, comforting and assertive all at once. _“Sweetheart, let it go,”_ she’d said. _“You see what he’s doing, don’t you? The way he circles Angelica? He’s jealous of you. That’s all this is. He doesn’t think you belong here. Show him he’s wrong.”_

He swallows down the bile. Keeps his expression as neutral as possible. “Word around town?”

“Oh, George and I — we go way back. He was one of our more generous donors at UVA,” Jefferson says fondly. “The Washingtons are old family friends, too. Surprised he hasn’t mentioned that to you.”

“He’s mentioned it. Once,” Alex says, jaw sore from how hard he’s clenching it. “But I know for a fact he didn’t say a word to you.”

Jefferson’s smirk makes his heart stop with sudden doubt. But then he realizes he’s been caught, tricked into disclosing the secret that, apparently, he’s no good at keeping. And then, it hits him before Jefferson even says it, and he should’ve known all along —

“Oh, no — George and I haven’t seen each other in years,” Jefferson says with a lazy shrug. “But your sister’s pillow talk has always been enlightening. And, it’s funny — I’ve always thought history has a tendency to repeat itself. You, fucking your way up…it’s like 1995 all over again. George must be lonely these days.”

Alex stops the recording and slams his laptop shut. “We’re done here.”

“Oh,” Jefferson says, feigning concern. “Are we rescheduling?”

“No. I’m killing the story. We’re done.”

—

It takes Alex no more than five minutes to walk to George's building, blind to every tourist and businessman he shoulders past on the packed sidewalk. He's sweating through his jacket already, his lungs cold and aching from the crisp December air. He goes through the motions at security, notices the guard who pulled him aside earlier in the week is gone, wonders distantly if George really did take care of it, like he said he would. He's in the elevator when he remembers George wanted him to bring lunch.

Too late for that, now. He finds George standing over his desk, brow furrowed, a stack of papers in each hand. Alex watches him from the doorway, unnoticed, struggling to catch his breath from the walk over. George's suit jacket is off and hanging from the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Alex swallows around the growing lump in his throat as George rolls a strong shoulder, a flicker of a grimace as he stretches it out.

"Hey," Alex walks in, closing the door behind him, ignoring the way his voice thins out at the end. George looks up from his papers, concern flashing in his eyes. But they grow warm when Alex steps forward, wrapping an arm loosely around George's waist, digging the tips of his fingers into the small of his back. He tilts his chin up for a kiss.

"Hey," George echoes, his breath warm against Alex’s face. He frees up his hands and drops the papers on the desk behind him before pinching Alex's chin between his thumb and finger, turning his head to one side and brushing his lips against the apple of Alex's cheek instead. "You didn't bring lunch?"

"Stop teasing," Alex says, palm resting flat on George's back, tugging him closer so their hips are flush together. He grinds against him, throws caution to the wind and lets his eyelids flutter shut from the sudden jolt of pleasure. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Sorry — ?”

"Let's go to your apartment," Alex says suddenly, running his hands down George's chest, feeling himself grow more and more desperate from the feel of hard muscle under the fabric of George's button up. 

"What?” he says, off of George’s bewildered look. “You're not going to fuck me here.”

"Jesus, Alex," George whispers, eyes darting toward the closed door before hungrily fixing on Alex again. "It's the middle of the day."

"Aren't you more or less the boss around here?" Alex asks, fingers curling around his tie. "No one will miss you."

George looks back at the work on his desk, considering. It'd been so organized earlier in the week. Now, Alex notices the cluttered mess of papers and memos, the file folders haphazardly stacked in one corner. He could probably use a break, Alex decides, reaching down and squeezing George through his pants — grinning when he finds him heavy and hardening in his hand.

"And what about you?" George asks through gritted teeth, brushing his hand away. "Are you...?"

Alex shrugs. "I was out on an interview that ran short. Still technically haven't taken a lunch break. No one's gonna miss me, either."

"OK."

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yes," George huffs out a strained laugh and closes in on Alex, holding his face between two strong hands and kissing him fast and dirty, fucking Alex's mouth with his tongue.

_Fuck Jefferson,_ he thinks, trailing his hands down George's back and squeezing his ass, yelping when George bites into his bottom lip in retaliation. Fuck Angelica and her hypocrisy, too. He's sick of waiting, anyway. Jefferson's had him pegged as a gold digging opportunist for the past twenty years, might as well live up to it and fuck the guy who could pay his kids' college tuition twice over without batting an eye.

George pulls back to shrug on his jacket and grab his bag. Then he holds out a hand to Alex, eyes wide and dark in a way he's never seen them before. Alex grabs hold of his offered hand and lets George lead him out of the office and toward the elevator.

"We'll catch a cab," George says, surprisingly calm. "Shouldn't take too long."

Alex nearly stops in his tracks when Lafayette briskly steps out of one of the offices and into the hallway, hair pulled back into a pony tail and bags under his eyes. He still looks beyond handsome for his exhausted state, Alex notes, annoyed. George drops his hand but it's too late — Lafayette blinks slowly, eyebrows raised, arms crossed over his chest.

"We're stepping out for lunch, Gilbert," George says, nonchalant. He nods back at Alex. "I'll be back later this afternoon."

Lafayette says nothing, just shoots Alex a withering look as soon as George has walked on. Alex pointedly ignores him and follows George into the elevator. Fuck Lafayette, too.

The cab ride passes by in a blur of stoplights and car horns. He spends most of it with his nose pressed into the curve of George’s shoulder, his collar peeled down so he can kiss and taste his neck while George runs a palm up and down his inner thigh. Alex is hit by a sense of  déjà vu — the familiar sensation of George’s fingers dancing along his thigh takes him back to that cab ride to Park Slope, how handsome George had looked, backlit by the twinkling city lights. Alex pulls back so he can get a good look at him — studies the fine lines webbing the corners of his eyes, the patch of dry skin on the tip of his chin. The corners of George’s mouth quirk up, a close-lipped ghost of a smile, and Alex feels the resentfulness — the spite that pushed him all the way to George’s office and into the cab — start to slip away. It’s just the two of them, now. 

George pays using the touchscreen in the back of the cab and Alex notices he overtips — $20. Then they’re out on the sidewalk in front of the Majestic and George takes his hand again, calmly leading him into the lobby.

The living room is pristine, and the bedroom smells like freshly laundered sheets. Alex’s heart is in his throat as soon as he steps into the room, pulling off his jacket and sitting on the edge of the bed. He runs a hand over the soft gray and white bedding. 

“You change your sheets and make your bed every morning?” Alex teases, looking up at George as he sheds his own suit jacket and loosens his tie.

“I have a housekeeper,” George says, cocking an eyebrow and leaning down to pull off his shoes.

“Oh, right. Obviously,” Alex says, rolling his eyes and sucking on his lip as George steps up to the bed, wasting no time tugging Alex’s shirt off and over his head, gently guiding him onto his back, lifting his hips and doing the same with his pants and underwear.

The ice box-like state of the apartment and the thrill of being exposed while George remains almost fully-clothed rocks a shiver through his body. He doesn’t ask him to turn up the heat, doesn’t want George to leave the bed, not while Alex’s cock is already hard, just starting to leak onto his stomach. 

George spreads Alex’s thighs apart so he can slip between them, covering Alex with his body and kissing first his chest, then along his collarbone. The fabric of his pants, rubbing against Alex’s dick as he moves over him, is almost unbearable, so Alex arches his back up, chasing after the friction. 

“You have to let me know if this is all too fast,” George says, pushing Alex’s hips back down with a firm hand. Alex shakes his head and pushes George’s hand away, letting himself grind up again.

“Don’t worry about me, OK? I don’t want to be coddled or talked through it. I’ve done this before.”

George pulls back. “I’m not…” he shakes his head, sighs through his nose. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“All right, sorry,” Alex says, straining his neck to give him a quick peck. “I don’t want to overthink this, you know? You’re just about the only person I trust right now. I’m tired of waiting and tired of everything else, and I’ve never had to worry about anything with you. So, I’m OK. This is good.”

George listens carefully, nods, before moving off of Alex and the bed entirely, disappearing into the attached bathroom. He returns seconds later with a small bottle of lube and a condom. Alex’s stomach twists with a desire that overshadows his nerves. 

“Would you show me how you get yourself ready?” George murmurs, setting the lube down next to Alex’s hand and crawling back into bed, pressing a warm kiss to the top of his head. Alex feels his face heat up, but he nods, eagerly coating two of his fingers, spreading his legs, rubbing the lube between his cheeks, adding more, and then he’s knuckles-deep, clenching around his own fingers, thrusting in and out as best he can with the awkward angle. 

“This is what I do, when I think of you,” Alex says as soon as he’s found a good rhythm. George’s eyes flicker up to look at him and Alex has to close his own eyes, worried it’ll be too much, that this’ll be over before it even starts. “Before you even touched or kissed me, I couldn’t help but think, what you’d feel like…”

He hears a sharp inhale followed shortly by the sound of more lube being squeezed from the bottle. He opens his eyes to find George coating his own fingers before carefully pressing one in next to Alex’s own. The sensation makes Alex wordlessly slam his head back into the silky pillow and push down further, despite the sting — George’s fingers, they’re so much thicker and longer than his own. Alex wants to say something, encourage him, tell him how good he feels, just from that one, solitary finger. But all that comes out is high whine he barely recognizes as his own.

George brushes the pad of a fourth finger against his hole and Alex slips his own out — he likes a challenge but he’s not feeling _that_ ambitious. Not today. George slides in his second finger, and Alex relaxes enough to take a third. George meets each thrust, following his rhythm but neglecting Alex’s cock. It eventually becomes too little and too much all at once and Alex stops moving, boneless and weak, melting into the bedspread, too lost in how fucking _good_ he feels to tell George to stop, that he’s ready. But George reads him well, pulls his soaked fingers out as soon as Alex goes limp.

It feels like ages since they left George’s office — time has been the last thing on his mind, and he’s playing a mental tug-of-war. He wants to drag this on a little longer, enjoy it, even as the rest of his body screams to be fucked. The other side of him is tired of the buildup, ready to release the tension that’s been growing between them since the moment they met that October day outside the Central Park Zoo.

He doesn’t have to choose, though. George rapidly sheds his clothes until he’s completely bare and exposed, and that’s when Alex realizes with some amusement and bewilderment that, this? It’s the first time he’s seen George like this, that he hasn’t gotten a good look at him until now, and he’s just as he wanted and expected him to be — thick and dark and long. Alex watches through half-lidded eyes as George rolls the condom over his cock, squirts more lube into his palm and gives himself a few long strokes. Alex obediently spreads his legs and settles deep into the mattress, stomach and chest rising and falling with each deep, calming breath he takes. But George shakes his head, smiles, and taps his hip.

“I want you on your side. If that’s OK.”

It takes Alex a moment to make sense of the request, his vision and brain alike fuzzy and muddled. But he rolls over, letting George settle in behind him and slip his hand under Alex’s knee and lift his leg up. He presses in, slowly, hand ghosting up and down the back of Alex’s thigh.

The burning stretch makes Alex scrunch his nose and press the side of his face into the side of the pillow. But George’s gentle caress moves up to his hip and it’s enough to help him relax as George bottoms out, filling him up in a way he hasn’t been filled in years. Alex involuntarily clenches around him, face still buried in the pillow, and he can tell George is holding back —exercising all of his willpower to keep his thrusts slow and shallow. 

“Alex, baby, you feel incredible,” George whispers against his ear, voice thick and strained. For some unfathomable reason the pet name makes tears prick at the corners of Alex’s eyes. He pushes past it and presses back to meet George’s thrusts. 

“You can fuck me harder,” he groans, picking up the pace as the sensation of being stretched around George’s cock starts to feel less foreign and more like home. George doesn’t need any more encouragement. He digs his fingers into Alex’s hip and starts to fuck him in earnest, Alex meeting him with each thrust, his jaw going slack as George slams against his prostate, hits it again, then a third time, Alex tries to form words, wants to beg to be touched, doesn’t think he’ll finish any other way, but then — 

George grunts behind him, holding Alex’s hip in a bruising grip as he speeds up, the distinct sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he chases after his orgasm — and then he’s still, panting against the nape of Alex’s neck, Alex inhales sharp, through his nose, as George’s cock softens and slips out of him.

He’s still achingly hard as George ties the condom, torn between annoyance and feeling unbelievably turned on by just how _much_ George wanted him — but then he’s being rolled onto his back and the only thing he feels is the wet heat of George’s mouth slipping over his cock, two — then three fingers fucking into him, and then he’s gone before he even has a chance to warn George, thrusting into his mouth with a strangled shout, and George holds onto his hips, eases him through it, swallowing around him. Alex tilts and twists his hips away when the pleasure fades to a dull pain, and George’s lips slide off of him, and Alex is done, there’s no fucking way he’s going back to work after this. George presses his lips against his belly before pulling him into a lazy kiss that Alex barely has the energy to return, and then he’s being cradled against George’s chest, those same thick fingers that completely undid him earlier tangling in his hair.

“I’m sorry you didn’t…” George says after a quiet moment, trailing off and kissing the top of Alex’s head.

“Oh, god, it’s fine,” Alex mutters into his chest. “That was…that was really, _really_ good.”

“But it’ll be better next time,” George promises. 

“It was just a lot to take in,” Alex admits. “Uh, literally.”

“Stop it,” George sighs, giving his ass a gentle swat. Alex snorts against his skin. 

“Sorry.” Alex hums contentedly as George scrapes his fingernails against his scalp. A glance at the digital clock on the bedside table tells him it’s nearly 2 p.m. He sighs. “You have to go back to work, don’t you?”

“I wish I didn’t,” George says. “But I have a 3 o’clock, and I think Gilbert will lose his mind if he has to reschedule it again.”

Alex nods silently, decides he’ll save his story from earlier today for another time — it’s not exactly urgent, George doesn’t need to know, and Jefferson has no one worthwhile to tell. The conversation with Angelica will be challenging enough. He pulls the sheets up to his chin and watches George dress — in a fresh suit, too. Alex wonders if Lafayette will notice. 

“Stay here as long as you like. Sleep, if you need to,” George says, pulling a set of keys out of a dresser drawer and setting them on the bedside table. “Just lock up before you leave.”

“You’re giving me keys to your place?” Alex asks, wagging an eyebrow. George smiles, leans down to kiss him.

“I’ll even leave your name with the doorman.”

George switches off the lights and shuts the bedroom door behind him. Alex leaves the warmth of the bed to locate his phone, still in his pants pocket, and shoots a quick text to Paine — _need to take the rest of the day off, bad lunch. sorry!_ — and crawls back into the sheets, still heated and damp from their bodies.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm[a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!_

Growing up, Alex never let himself entertain the thought of finding a love without an expiration date. He spent most of 19 and 20 dodging the men and women whose beds he shared for a night or two. John — his first taste of how _good_ being in love felt, to the point it left him drained, like a shell of himself — came and went. And so he resigned himself to loneliness. He made peace with it. He would be _fine_.

He had $1,300 in savings and about $250 in his checking account when he met Eliza — just barely scraping by between a work-study gig at Butler Library and his tips from the weekend nights he spent bartending just south of campus. He remembers the night they met well. She walked into his bar at the tail end of his shift, just before midnight, Angelica at her side. A nervous, fidgety Peggy, too — it was siblings weekend, and there was not much else to do aside from hooking up 17-year-olds with fake IDs. He served Eliza her Long Islands on the house, got one hell of a tip out of it, and spent the night with her curled underneath his cheap cotton sheets wearing only a nude push-up bra and a drop pearl necklace that rose and fell with each breath she took.

A bored, defiant rich girl looking for cheap thrills. That’s all he thought she was. And, he was right. At first.

He lucked out with Eliza, he thinks, as he greets George with a firm peck on the corner of his mouth and makes his way to the bedroom. It’s 6 p.m., and they have the rest of the evening to kill. Alex can feel himself slipping into old habits when he’s with him, though George is far from a one night stand. But that’s part of the appeal, he tells himself —being with someone nurturing and paternal without the promise of commitment, or the underlying fear of it ending. It’s the ideal compromise.

 _Have your cake and fuck it, too._ Alex grins and sits heavily on the edge of George’s bed. He’s rolling a cramp out of his neck when George trails in after him, amused.

“Don’t you want to have dinner, first?” he asks, hovering in the doorway. “It’s early. You still like having dinner with me, don’t you?”

“I do,” Alex laughs. “But I can have dinner with you any time. But this — _this_ is a rare evening. The kids are with Angelica, and I’m here, with you. In your bed.” He bounces a little on the edge of the mattress for emphasis. “Do you really want to waste time on food?”

George rolls his eyes, still smiling, as he works on the top button of his own shirt, exposing a bit of collarbone. Alex watches his fingers work their way down the line of buttons, only half-listening when George asks, “Have you talked to Angelica yet? About Jefferson?”

“No,” Alex admits. “It’s not exactly a work conversation, and the kids are always around when we’re at the house. But I’ll talk to her. Soon.”

He scoots closer to the edge of the bed and gestures for George to come closer, eager to help with his shirt. He’s unfastening a middle button, George standing between his knees, when he feels his stomach rumble under his hands. Alex grins up at him.

“Hungry?” he asks, kissing low on George’s stomach, over the fabric of his shirt.

“Well, it _is_ dinnertime.”

“OK, I can take a hint.” Alex helps George tuck his shirt back in and climbs to his feet. “Where do you want to go?”

—

George takes him to a restaurant on the edge of the Lake. The hostess seats them at a table next to floor-to-ceiling glass windows with a perfect view of the terrace and Bethesda Fountain. Eliza would’ve loved this place, he thinks, his mind wandering while George orders their wine and food. They’d been to a number of friends’ weddings at the terrace — she’d called it _overdone_ and _uninspired_ , pointed out the lack of seating for older guests, though he could always tell, secretly, she was a little envious.

“ _You know what it’d be perfect for, though,”_ she admitted one afternoon in a cab, heading to the reception for one of their last terrace weddings, _“a vow renewal.”_ And Alex had filed that away in his memory. They were headed for 25 years. A quarter of a century. Yeah. They were definitely due for a vow renewal. A gentle nudge under the table forces him back to the present.

“Alex,” George nods up at their waiter, pen poised and waiting on his notepad. “Anything else to drink besides the wine?”

“Sorry, yeah. Water, no lemon.”

Their dinner arrives and the smell of the lemon-roasted chicken goes straight to Alex’s stomach. He’s a lot hungrier than he realized, but he still only allows himself to eat about half of his plate— doesn’t want to fall into a food coma before their night has even started. So he fills up on wine until he feels warm and comfortable and loose, focused only on the way George is silently watching him from across the table.

“You don’t mind this, do you?” George asks after a moment, pushing his empty plate to the edge of the table, eyes still on Alex.

“Mind what?”

“This,” George says, waving his hand over the bread basket and appetizer plates on their table. “Going out. I know things have changed a lot since Thanksgiving, but I don’t think we need to hole up in my office for lunch or hide from the world because of it. Do you?”

“No,” Alex answers slowly, taken aback. “Not at all. We went out together…before. Is this about earlier? What I said back at your apartment?”

“I don’t want this to feel shameful,” George says. “You make me happy, and I hope I still make you happy.”

Alex’s fingers curls around his knee as he suppresses the unwelcome urge to reach across the table and grab hold of George’s hand. Instead, he runs his tongue over his teeth, cautious of the inevitable red wine stain, and smiles.

“Of course you make me happy.”

George’s lips twitch up in a small, but relieved smile.

“Good,” he says, plucking a slice of rye bread out of the basket, starting to butter it. “I know it feels like, maybe, the lines have blurred a little.”

Alex tilts his head curiously. “What do you — ”

“Gentlemen,” their waiter interrupts, startling Alex. “Can I interest you in any of our desserts? Perhaps our gelato? We import it from Sicily.”

“Just the check, thank you,” George answers, pulling out his wallet. Alex doesn’t bother to dig into his pocket for his. He knows how it goes, now.

The sun is setting by the time they’re making their way back to George’s apartment, Alex’s leftover box tucked under one arm. There are still a handful of tourists circling the fountain and, next to one of the terrace’s archways, a couple wrapping up an engagement photoshoot —judging by the ornate diamond ring on the woman’s left hand.

The air is colder under the terrace so Alex huddles in a little closer to George, looking up just in time to catch a flicker of a smile. They stop, briefly, to give directions to a family searching for Strawberry Fields and then, for a rare moment, they’re the only ones standing under the terrace aside from a dark-haired woman playing her cello, a classical tune Alex doesn’t recognize. 

“This is…” Alex’s brain supplies a word he doesn’t dare say out loud, so he ducks his head and laughs it off. George lifts an eyebrow. “Peaceful.”

Something shifts in George’s face as he gazes down at Alex. It’s a change Alex feels rather than sees, and suddenly laughing feels inappropriate, wrong. Alex moves his weight from foot to foot, uncertain, a little frightened by the energy pulsing between them. They’ve already taken things this far, he thinks, so what’s left to fear?

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” George interrupts his thoughts, nodding up at a group of tourists clamoring down the steps. And the moment passes.

—

Alex is tugging off his own shirt before George even has a chance to lock his front door, and then there’s a flurry of movement as George floods his vision and crashes into him, backing him into the bedroom, knocking their foreheads together with each bruising kiss. He only lets Alex come up for air once he’s spread out on top of the duvet.

“Roll over,” George says, hovering over him, face just centimeters away from Alex’s. He’s still trying to catch his breath, but the franticness is gone, carefully reigned in and controlled. Alex doesn’t move. It’s not that he’s _against_ the idea of being bent over, fucked hard and fast — George has that sort of power over him, now, he figures. It’s just not the direction he thought the night was headed.

“I may look easy, but I don’t count wining and dining as foreplay. Just for the record,” he says. “Besides, I thought we were dragging tonight out a bit? Making it last…”

“We are,” George says. He moves in for a kiss, playfully nipping Alex’s bottom lip. “Trust me?”

He’s intrigued now, so he rolls over onto his belly and lets George tug his hips up and roll down his boxer briefs, exposing his ass and cock to the frigid air.

“Your apartment’s like an igloo,” Alex mutters into the pillow he has clutched against his chest. “It’s December. I know you’re not too cheap to turn up your heat.”

“You’ll warm up,” George says, breath hot against his ass, and Alex’s eyes widen with realization before George’s hands have even cupped and spread his cheeks.

“ _Oh_ — oh fuck,” Alex buries his face into the pillowcase and digs his fingers into the sheets. He hears — and feels — George laugh softly behind him, and then a kiss placed delicately at the base of his spine. Alex arches into it eagerly, hissing when he feels just a teasing flit of tongue, and then again, more pressure this time, before George is working him open with his mouth with sloppy, wet sounds that make Alex’s blood buzz, and George’s grip on his hips is the only thing keeping him from grinding — or collapsing — into the bed.

It goes on like that for two minutes, maybe three, before Alex takes himself in his hand, starts with leisurely strokes, but then a careful, calculated drag of teeth against his entrance nearly sends him over the edge, eyes watering from the warm pleasure flooding into the pit of his stomach.

And then George takes pity on him — loosens the hard grip on his hips and lets him crash breathlessly into the mattress. Alex barely has the energy to roll onto his back, but then he hears a muffled rustle of fabric and his desire to _see_ George wins over.

He’s rewarded for his efforts, his cheeks growing even warmer as George starts to lazily discard his clothes. He makes sure Alex is watching as he unbuckles his belt and pushes off his pants and then — there’s a smile. Alex is struck by the purity of it, the adoration he senses behind it, the way it fits like a missing puzzle piece with the look that passed between them under the terrace, not even a half hour ago, and he drinks him in — all of him — as an unexpected wave of happiness ripples through his body, dimming the haze of his desire. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of this view — or, for that matter, this man.

He relaxes as George gets to work — kissing first the top of his head and then skipping down to his chest, swirling one nipple with his tongue and sucking kisses down his torso, to the soft swell of his belly. Alex spreads his legs even wider, ignoring the burning stretch — and, really, he should probably exercise more, limber up, if this is what they’re doing now — and then George is biting and kissing his inner thighs, little red marks Alex suspects he’ll feel for daysblossoming under his lips.

George moves lower and lower until he’s sucking at the spot where Alex’s thigh and groin meet, one hand toying with his balls, and Alex spaces out for a moment, leg jolting forward, a sharp heel digging into George’s hip.

“Easy, baby,” George laughs, patting Alex’s thigh. “If you want something, all you have to do is ask.”

Alex drops his head back against the pillow and smiles at George down the length of his body. He wiggles his hips playfully, eyes fixing on George’s cock, hard and long and already leaking. “Fuck me, then. And at least try to let me finish first this time?”

George laughs as he slicks his fingers with lube — Alex is already open and relaxed so he slides in easily, stretching him out, smirking when Alex lets out an involuntary moan, low in the back of his throat, twisting against the sheets. He pushes himself down further on George’s hand.

“Look at how bad you want it,” George teases. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

It’s not long before George is rolling on a condom and lifting Alex’s hips, sliding in with a grunt, Alex arching his back off the bed and pushing down to meet him. He adjusts to the stretch, the fullness, quicker than before, and starts fucking himself on George’s cock, ignoring the strain on his thighs. George stays still and watches him for a few quiet moments, pupils blown and dark, and then he’s meeting each of Alex’s thrusts with double the force, neglecting Alex’s cock and instead peppering his neck and chest with chaste, close-mouthed kisses.

He’s heard about it — widows and widowers, divorcees — finding comfort in imagining their spouses while getting fucked in someone else’s bed. Even if he wanted Eliza on his mind, George leaves no room for it. The strong, calloused hands, the way he grabs where Eliza would’ve stroked. The kind, brown eyes, though — those aren’t unalike.

“Touch me — _touch me_ ,” Alex begs, voice hoarse, and George silences him with a hard, forceful kiss and a hand around his dick, gradually increasing pressure until Alex is whining into George’s mouth, and then — he’s spilling over his hand, clenching around his cock, his entire body vibrating, twitching, going limp as George picks up the pace, fucks into him until Alex’s vision starts to blur, andhe’s lost all track of time — it could be ten seconds or three minutes before George’s hips still and his eyes close, cock pulsing inside Alex like a heartbeat.

Alex is drifting somewhere between awake and asleep when George slips out and falls next to him with a content sigh, the bedsprings creaking under his weight. Alex rolls his head over to smile at him, takes in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“You really do make me happy, you know,” George says after a quiet moment, pressing a kiss to Alex’s temple. “More than you realize.”

Alex only nods, too worn out to reply.

—

He wakes up a little past 11 p.m. to a dark room and George snoring softly next to him. A quick look at his phone shows no missed calls or unread texts from Angelica. They never did agree on a time but he knows, regardless, he should’ve been home hours ago. He sighs heavily through his nose and rolls onto his shoulder, studying George’s profile and resisting the impulse to curl up against his side and drift back to sleep. Instead, he shakes George’s shoulder until he opens his eyes, blinking slowly at him.

“Alex?” he asks, voice deep and cracked. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to have to wake you up,” he whispers, even though they’re the only two in the bedroom. “But I should go home — I slept too long. But thanks, uh…for tonight.”

George squints over at his alarm clock and frowns. “It’s too late. Can’t you just stay here?”

“I shouldn’t,” Alex says, smiling despite himself. He crawls out from underneath the duvet and dresses quickly, shivering a little from the cold.

“Text me as soon as you get home, at least,” George says, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“I’ve been out alone at night, believe it or not,” Alex teases gently, pulling on his jacket and sitting back on the bed. George pushes himself up on one elbow, blankets rolling down to his hips. Alex allows himself a quick, innocent glance and presses a kiss to his mouth. “But I will. See you at lunch tomorrow.”

The steady rock of the train makes him want to fall asleep, but it’s the brush of fabric against his thighs — tender and raw from where George sucked his skin — that keeps him awake during the ride back to Park Slope. He catches his reflection in the window — the tousled hair, the untucked, wrinkled shirt. He dressed in a daze, in the dark, and it shows. He tries his best to smooth out his shirt as he walks up his front steps — Angelica has already sent the kids to bed, he suspects, but better to be one step ahead.

Angelica is sitting on the couch when he steps into the living room, reading something on her Kindle. Alex shoots her a sheepish smile when she looks up.

“It’s past midnight,” she says matter-of-fact, turning back to her book. “I figured you were staying at George’s for the night.”

“Come on, you know I would’ve given you a heads up,” Alex says, crossing into the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water. He guzzles it down, turns on the tap and fills the glass again. Fuck, he’s thirsty. “I would’ve been home earlier but I kind of passed out after dinner.”

Angelica lifts both eyebrows and switches off her Kindle, shoving it into her purse, the tension thick in the room. Alex watches warily as she stretches both arms above her head, yawning.

“Can’t you set an alarm or something next time?” she asks, shouldering her bag and pulling on a leather heeled boot. “Or at least shoot me a text if you think you’re going to be this late? It’s great that you’re getting laid, congratulations, but my celibacy doesn’t mean I have all the time in the world to keep the kids occupied.”

Alex barks out a laugh without thinking, shocked by the blatant lie. Angelica’s hand stills on the door knob.

“What?”

“Your — sorry, your _celibacy_? Angelica, I know about you and Jefferson.”

The way Angelica’s face shatters almost makes him wish he hadn’t brought it up. _Think before you speak_ , the most basic childhood lesson. But it’s been a long time coming, it’s something that would’ve surfaced regardless of how deep she tried to bury it. She stands up straighter, collects herself and juts her chin out.

“How?”

“He told me,” Alex says with a shrug. “I mean, he’s been dropping hints since that gala I had to go to for work. But, you know, it was pretty easy to connect the dots when he mentioned how he found out about George.”

Angelica passes a hand over her face with an exaggerated groan, smudging her mascara onto the corners of her eyes. “Alex, it wasn’t malicious — I didn’t mean to, I didn’t even know he knew who George _was_.”

“That part doesn’t even matter!” Alex says, keeping his voice low despite his growing frustration. “Jefferson’ll use it to torment me because he _hates_ me, but it’s not like he can do anything with it. What matters to me is that _you’re_ the one who thought it was OK to tell him!”

He can tell that Angelica is growing anxious from how she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the way her manicured nails dig into her purse strap. “I told you, Alex, it just slipped out. I was hurt. Can you blame me? It took an accidental text message for you to come clean, and after all we’ve been through together? Thomas wanted to listen.”

“Of course he did!” Alex laughs humorlessly. And he _knows_ Angelica is smarter than this, that there’s no way Jefferson has pulled the wool over her eyes. Something’s up. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He has so little respect for you that he’d just drop that bomb in the middle of our interview, knowing we’d fight, just like this. Ang, he doesn’t care about you!”

He regrets the words, true as they may be, before they’ve even left his lips. Angelica blinks back a wave of tears and Alex falls silent, doesn’t think he’s seen her cry since the morning they put Eliza in the ground. She struggles to speak, bottom lip trembling.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“It’s not an _opinion_ , he — ”

“No, listen to me,” Angelica snaps, effectively silencing him. “You don’t get to talk to me like this, or pass judgment. Everything that I’ve done, every single choice I’ve made since we lost them has been for _you_ , Alex.”

Alex shakes his head stubbornly. “Don’t throw that in my face. You know you didn’t have to move to Park Slope —”

“I was about to close on a flat in Kensington. It was right down the street from a little bookstore and a Costa Coffee.”

Alex frowns. “Kensington? Here in Brooklyn?”

“West London, Alex. Hyde Park.”

Alex freezes, the house falling into an uncomfortable silence that Angelica breaks with a light scoff — just a puff of air through her nose.

“The job offer came through a month before and everything was falling together perfectly. I was just days away from telling you and Eliza, I didn’t want to jinx it, I was too afraid something would fall through at the last second. And I was right. She was gone.”

It’s clear to Alex, watching the way she lifts a shoulder in a resigned shrug, that this is something she’s come to terms with on her own. That, as far as Angelica’s concerned, it’s in the past. No reason to mourn. He sees it for what it is, though — a calculated move, an attempt to reroute their fight, shift the blame and, shit, it’s working. 

“I didn’t think it over for even a day, not even a minute,” Angelica continues calmly. “I quit my job before I even started and canceled my one-way ticket, because I knew there was no way I could leave you here alone. There was no way you could take care of Angie and Will by yourself.”

Alex stares at her from across the living room, his half-empty glass of water still clutched in one hand. Angelica dabs at the corner of one eye with the tip of her finger, sniffs delicately.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alex finally asks, at a loss for anything better to say. “Holy _shit_.”

Angelica’s eyes drop to her boots. She shakes her head. “You were going through enough, without adding that. And you would’ve told me I made the wrong choice.”

“Angelica — ”

“Thomas might be a mistake, but he’s my mistake to make,” Angelica shrugs. “I’m sorry I told him about you and George. And I know you must think I’m a huge hypocrite, and maybe you’re right, but I’m doing the best I can right now. Just like you.”

Alex nods wordlessly and watches her go. Through the window, he can hear the sharp click of her boots on the sidewalk as she heads toward her block. He downs the rest of his water, sets the glass in the sink, picks it up, fills it again — anything to keep his hands occupied. On the counter, his phone lights up with a text from George.

_Are you home yet?_

He types out a quick ‘yes’ and sets his phone aside, numb. Maybe, he thinks, he should’ve just stayed the night.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be filling up this series with more fic once I've completed this particular story. However, I've already added "[Bit of a Stance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7419595)," just something short on the Schuyler sisters' first interactions with Alex. Moving forward, I'll be writing some prequel fic, as well as expanding on what happens after WWAWWS and even some missing scene bits. You can always prompt me over at [my Tumblr](http://www.a-schuyler.tumblr.com), too. I have an ongoing list of shit I'd like to write after this baby is wrapped up. 

Alex is not a liar.

He's just leaving out a few key details.

The week leading up to George’s trial feels like it lasts a lifetime. Angelica, to his relief, remains silent when Burr points out Alex's lunch breaks are getting longer. That, lately, he's doing most of his interviews off-site. 

"This week is just busier than usual,” Alex answers, offhand, with a bored shrug. Burr drops it, never pries, but every question, every curious look, makes Alex wonder how long they can keep this up. 

Truthfully, after the chaos with Jefferson and Angelica, he doesn’t care so much about Burr or Lafayette or anyone else catching on. But he’s managed to keep appearances up for his kids and that, he thinks, is the most important part. He’s home in the evenings, never late to meet them after school. Will, he knows, could remain oblivious for as long as Alex wants him to. But Angie is a different story — she has Alex’s wit, her mother’s intuition. One wrong move in her presence, even the slightest misstep, could be detrimental to everything he and George have worked for. And he can’t lose his daughter’s trust, on top of everything else he’s lost. 

They meet at George's apartment when he can afford to spend an hour or two away from his trial prep. Alex hasn't fucked anyone in the middle of a weekday since he was in college —vacations with Eliza hardly count — and he's forgotten how it feels to just set aside the worries of the day and relish a moment away from the hustle and bustle of the city. 

George is good to him. Good _for_ him. He indulges Alex, only says no when they're in his office or he's otherwise occupied. And Alex can't deny that, lately, he's been particularly insatiable - it’s like George’s first touch switched something on inside of him. He’s not especially proud of this development; he knows that, on some level, he's using it as a distraction. A distraction from Angelica, from the daily grind of his infuriating job — from his own creeping fear there's something George isn't telling him. 

It’s silly. Likely nothing. But George is distant, quieter than Alex is used to. Alex can't quite put his finger on why. Part of it, he knows, is that they don't talk much while they fuck — not when they’re in a rush. They have something resembling a routine by the time Wednesday rolls around: Alex usually arrives at the apartment first, uses his key to let himself in. Then, it’s 15, 20, sometimes 30 minutes if they’re lucky, before they’re straightening ties and smoothing out shirts again, guzzling down glasses of water and trading quick kisses in the elevator. It meets that primal need, for both of them, but not much else.

“Angelica and Peggy are taking the kids shopping after school today,” Alex tells him after one of their trysts, George standing behind him on a crowded B train. Alex takes the smallest step backwards, grinds his ass against George, just enough to earn a sharp inhale next to his ear. 

A woman, seated across from him, looks up from her paperback and scowls. Alex ignores her. He’s seen worse while riding the subway. 

“For new coats and boots and shit,” he continues. “Angie doesn’t respect my taste.”

“What are you suggesting?” 

Alex cranes his neck around to grin up at George, innuendo locked and loaded, but he’s struck by what he can only interpret as disinterest. He deflates, turns around to face him.

“I know you’ve been busy,” Alex says. He shrugs helplessly, searching for the right words to say. “But it’s after work, and they’ll be gone most of the evening. We could eat in? I don’t know, watch a movie? … Or not, because we’ve seen each other every day this week and you’re probably getting sick of me.”

“Stop,” George says, warm, with a smile. That makes Alex feel marginally better, though it does very little to ward off the anxiety brewing in his gut. He hates feeling like this around George, when he’s always made him so happy.

“So tonight?” Alex presses. 

George nods. Their train screeches to a stop, and he’s shouldering through the crowd, toward the open doors.

“I’ll see you later,” George says before stepping out onto the platform.

Burr’s gone when Alex makes it back to his office, leaving him alone with Angelica. The silence that’s settled between them is tense and thick, has been all week, so Alex does his best to ignore her. He puts in his earbuds, types up interview notes from his Moleskine. He doesn’t know what he owes her - an apology? He’s not really sorry for anything he’s said or done. 

She’s the first to pack up once the workday crawls to its end. She’s also the first to break the silence.

“Did you want to head home together?” she asks, tying a cashmere scarf around her neck, fastening her coat’s toggles. Alex plucks out an earbud and gives her a stiff smile. 

“I have plans in the city,” he says needlessly, knowing she’ll read between the lines, no matter what he claims. “Just shoot me a text when you guys are done shopping?”

“Got it,” she says, blank, unreadable, before turning on her heel. “Tell George I said ‘hi.’”

She breezes out of their office before Alex can get another word in, leaving him with an uneasiness that crawls under his skin and travels with him all the way back to George’s apartment. 

—

Not thirty minutes later, he’s greeting George’s doorman and making a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he lets himself in. If they’re going to lounge around all evening he’s not staying in his work clothes, he decides, turning on the shower and stripping down. He’ll steal one of George’s robes, maybe a T-shirt. Or, maybe, depending on how the night plays out, he won’t need to wear anything at all.

He finds some comfort in George’s shower, lets the almost too-hot stream of water splash over his face, redden his thighs and chest. But it’s not much longer before George comes home — Alex can hear him opening doors and moving around the attached bedroom before he steps inside the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain. Alex freezes, too aware of the way his hair is plastered to his forehead, how red and flushed his skin is from the heat. He knows it can’t be attractive, he never has mastered that wet, alluring look.

“Hey,” he says when George steps inside and pulls the curtain back in place. Alex crowds against his chest, offering his lips. George kisses him, quick and passionless, but not unkind.

“Aren’t you burning up?” George asks, reaching past Alex to twist the shower knob, arm muscles rippling under his skin. The water cools and he stands upright again, droplets caught on his lips, collecting on dark shoulders and long lashes. Alex stares. “You don’t mind if I join, do you?”

“Not at all,” Alex says, almost too quick, and that gets him a chuckle. A hand on his hip spins him around to face the shower head, and then George is kissing along the line of his shoulder, nuzzling the nape of his neck. Alex closes his eyes and relaxes into it, relieved that whatever funk he picked up on earlier must’ve passed.

George’s fingers graze a nipple, he stops to toy with it, and Alex hums happily, weighing the pros and cons of sucking George off in the shower, when he spots it — an amber-colored bottle of men’s shampoo in the shower caddy. He feels his stomach drop. 

“What’s this?” Alex asks, twisting away from George and grabbing the bottle. He reads the label — sulfate-free, 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. 

He looks at the bottle, then back up at George, confirming that he is, indeed, free of hair. 

“What other lucky men are using your shower?” he teases, though his heart and stomach alike are fluttering with nerves. He forces a laugh, fingers tightening around the curve of the bottle. “You cheating on me?”

George raises both eyebrows and Alex immediately wants to rewind, snatch his words back, because this is stupid — so, incredibly _stupid._

_To cheat on someone you have to be with them first, asshole._ He doesn’t think he’ll be able to correct himself without digging himself into an even deeper hole and, really, whoever else George is fucking? That’s not Alex’s business, as long as they’re being safe. 

“I don’t know why I…” he trails off, struck by the realization that he can’t come up with an excuse, a reason, other than…

Fuck. He _cares_. 

“Alex,” George says carefully. Alex braces himself, but George’s next words aren’t what he expects at all. He waves at the bottle in Alex’s hand. “I picked that up for you last night. I wanted you to have something to use, whenever you’re over here.”

If Alex’s face could turn redder, he’s certain it’d be on fire. He looks back down at the shampoo bottle. “Oh.”

George watches as he pops open the cap, takes a sniff. There’s just a dull, barely-there hint of mint. It’s a nice scent. Refreshing. Alex squirts some out into his palm and smiles, apologetic, before lathering it into his hair. George’s eyes are still on him, watching the way he massages the shampoo into his scalp. Alex turns his back to George and lets his hair fall back against his shoulders, inviting him to brush Alex’s hands away and take over. Maybe that’ll help distract George, move past whatever the hell just happened. Alex would be glad to never speak of it again. But George doesn’t take the bait. He peels back the shower curtain. 

“I’m going to open a bottle of wine and order our food,” he says, grabbing a towel off the back of the toilet. He wraps it low on his hips. “Thai?”

Alex nods his agreement, afraid of opening his mouth and fucking up again. George disappears into the bedroom, leaving Alex to mumble a string of _fucks_ and _shits_ under his breath, aggressively massaging the shampoo into his hair. He should just go home. Call it a night and try again tomorrow, see if they’re back in sync. 

It makes no fucking sense — the week he gets everything he wanted out of this arrangement is the week he feels completely out of control, like he’s missing the final piece to a puzzle. 

He rinses his hair and towel-dries it, pulls a plush navy robe out of George’s linen closet. It’s too big on him — the sleeves are long, the bottom of the robe itself nearly touches his ankles, but it’s soft and warm and smells like the same lavender laundry detergent George uses on his sheets, so he wraps it around his body a bit tighter and wanders into the kitchen.

George is leaning against a counter, dressed in a pair of plaid flannel pants and a gray cotton T-shirt, glass of white wine in one hand, scrolling through his iPhone with the other. Alex helps himself to the stemless glass George has waiting for him on the marble countertop, pours in a liberal amount of wine and takes a long sip.

“Food should be here shortly,” George says. He looks up from his phone, teeth digging into his lower lip, finger tapping repeatedly against the hard shell of his phone’s case. It’s the most tense, the most apprehensive Alex has ever seen him. Alex swallows. “Can we talk about something?”

Alex sighs through his nose but nods, nervously scratching an imaginary itch on his upper lip. He clasps his hands together, tries to stop fidgeting.

“Can I just — clarify something, first?” 

George doesn’t move. Just frowns. “Go ahead.”

“What I said in the shower, earlier? I didn’t mean to...you’re obviously free to screw around with whoever, you know? I know I sounded, I don’t know, possessive? Kind of mean? But you’re not...mine. It’s none of my business, and that’s not what you — what _we_ — signed up for—”

George sets his phone down, shakes his head wearily. “Alex, I’m not with anyone else.”

“I’m just saying, if you _were_ , it would be fine—”

“Let me clarify something, too, then,” George interrupts. “I don’t want there to be anyone else. I don’t think you do, either.”

“Not really,” Alex admits, relieved, almost, to say it out loud. Even more relieved that George seems unbothered, because it’s unfair, Alex thinks, to ask George to remain faithful for the sake of his own self-worth without getting anything in return. Especially after the week they’ve had. “I’m sorry. It’s selfish.”

George takes another sip of wine. “My turn.”

Alex blinks. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about?”

“Related, I suppose?” George shrugs, sighs heavily. “Alex, I care about you so much more than I ever anticipated. I don’t want to scare you. I want you to feel like you can put your trust in me, so tell me if I overstep. Please.”

Alex doesn’t know if he wants to step closer to George or back away. So he stands perfectly still, tracing designs into the condensation on the wine glass. _Breathe._ “What’s going on?”

“These past few days have been fun, and I’ve enjoyed it, I enjoy being with you. But I’ve realized — long before this week, even — that I’m not sure it’s enough. For me.”

Alex freezes, his stomach churns. In some way, this was expected, he thinks. That the arrangement would lose its appeal, that George would want to move on to someone less damaged, someone who could give him everything Alex couldn’t. 

It would be pathetic to beg him to stay. He feels his throat constrict, his vision blur. It would be even more pathetic to cry. 

“So, um,” Alex blinks rapidly, voice wavering. “You don’t want to do this anymore?”

George’s face twists into a grimace, and then he’s stepping up to Alex, taking his glass of wine out of his hands so he can hold them in his own. The gesture makes Alex flinch away, but George holds onto him, the weight of his hands calm and comforting.

“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” George says, running his thumb over Alex’s knuckles. “I want us to be more than what we are. I know that’s not something you’re ready for but it’s not right to keep it from you, and I want to be honest.”

Alex’s throat goes dry and, for once, he’s speechless. His mind wills his hands to squeeze George’s, but all he can manage to do is stare down at their joined hands, too afraid to look up and meet his eyes. 

His wedding band, loose on his ring finger from the pounds he’s shed since February, stares back up at him. He’s hit with an unexpected stab of guilt and, for a moment, it feels like his ragged breathing, the thud of his heart, are the only sounds in the entire apartment.

“You’ll have me, regardless,” George says quickly, dragging him out of his thoughts. “I’m not leaving you unless that’s what you want — and I’d understand that, truly. You didn’t ask for this. But I’d like to know if, in any capacity, you feel the same?”

Alex looks up, then, and sees the hopefulness and vulnerability reflecting in George’s eyes. The question he asked Martha, a million years ago, at Thanksgiving, echoes in his memory. _How are you supposed to know when it’s right?_ And the answer remains the same. 

He has no fucking clue.

“I’m not there yet,” Alex says quietly, steady, all but forcing himself to look George in the eye when he says it. But if George is upset or angry, it doesn’t show on his face, his grip on Alex’s hands doesn’t even loosen. “I want to be. I think I could be. But it’s just  — it’s still too much, you know? And you’re so good to me, to my kids, and in any other circumstance it would be different. But I don’t want to jump into this headfirst. What we’re doing now feels risky enough, and I’m trying to be a good dad for the kids I have left, and —”

“OK, shh,” George says, dropping one of Alex’s hands, holding it up to quiet him. “I know. It’s OK.”

“It’s a lot to consider,” Alex presses on until he’s practically stumbling over his words, voice growing thin and high. “For you, too. If we did this, you wouldn’t just get me. You’d get my kids and Angelica and Peggy and all that baggage, everything my family’s been through, and you’ve seen it  — it’s not always pretty. And if there’s anyone I trust to let into my life like that, it’s you. But I don’t know if my kids are ready for that, or what that means. And if it didn’t work out and you left us —”

“Alex, listen to me,” George says, kind and gentle and Alex hates him a little for being so goddamn understanding and mindful and _good._ “We don’t need to have this conversation tonight. If we get there, we’ll talk about your kids and everything else. But right now, nothing has to change. I just wanted you to know.”

_When we get there,_ Alex’s brain supplies, unbidden.

“Thank you,” Alex says lamely. George looks uncertain, so Alex grabs his arm, uses it as leverage to pull himself up for a kiss. George drops a hand to his waist, pulls him a little closer, and Alex yearns to get lost in this, because these moments, away from the harsh reality of his mess of a life, make him feel like, maybe, they truly could make this work. They could be happy.

The doorbell rings and George reluctantly pulls away. “That’ll be our food.”

Alex changes into one of George’s sweatshirts while he unpacks their food and sets up their meal on the coffee table, facing the television. Alex spends more time watching George than their documentary — some film about the _Times_ newsroom, how the age of the Internet has transformed it, and Alex thinks he might have to rewatch it another night, when his mind isn’t racing, when his eyelids aren’t growing heavy.

“You can put your head in my lap,” George offers when Alex nods off and jolts upright for the second time.    


Alex lifts an eyebrow, yawns. “Oh?”

George rolls his eyes, guides Alex down gently until he’s resting across the couch, thick fingers combing out the tangles in his damp hair. He pulls a knit throw blanket off the back of the couch and tucks it around Alex. Yes, he thinks, again, touching George’s knee over his pajama pants. They could be happy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
>   
>  _I'm[a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr - we can chat there!_  
>    
>  _

_Good news. Conway entered a guilty plea this morning. No trial. Don’t tell Burr yet, still tying up some loose ends._

Alex reads over the text at his desk and smiles. He knows it’s a bit selfish, but most of George’s free time has been consumed by this trial and, well, Alex can’t deny he’s happy to get him back, thrilled by the thought of spending more time together outside of frenzied, heated lunch breaks.

(Even though everything has shifted, just slightly. Even though everything that they do now is with the knowledge that George _expects_ something. He may not have admitted it then, he might not even realize, but Alex knows. There’s a deadline, as abstract and intangible as it may be, floating over their heads. An expiration date.)

Anyway.

He types out a reply.

_Congratulations. Should we celebrate?_

It takes George a few minutes to respond. Alex sets his phone down on his desk, screen up, waits, and tries to ignore the little knot of uncertainty twisting in his stomach. It unravels, just a bit, when George’s gray text bubble pops up.

_Actually, I was thinking of taking a vacation day tomorrow. You’re welcome to join. Let me know if you can get the day off?_

Alex bites down on his thumb nail. A day off. He hasn’t had a real day off since February — took his three days of bereavement leave, enough time to make funeral arrangements and that was it; threw himself right back into the game before he was ready. He needed his routine, knew that lying around his quiet house wouldn’t do him any good, needed the distraction his job provided.

But God, now? A day off spent with George sounds heavenly. It’s already December and he still has his two weeks. Paine might be nothing short of a monster, but Alex doesn’t think even he would turn down a request for a single day. He shrugs and shoots George an answer. _I can._

He bites back a grin when he reads George’s reply.

 _Good. Bring a couple changes of clothes._  

—

The next morning, Alex books it to George’s apartment and finds him waiting in the living room, a black leather carry-on bag in one hand, dangling at his side.

“Wait, where are we going?” Alex asks. His own backpack, dangling off one shoulder and stuffed with a few pairs of wrinkled pants and shirts suddenly feels insufficient. George gives him a little smile as he starts switching off lights and pulling curtains closed.

“It’s a surprise. Is that OK?”

“Yeah,” Alex answers quickly, drumming his fingers along the strap of his backpack. He actually, _really_ , isn’t a huge fan of surprises. But George seems happy, he doesn’t want to bring the mood down. He’ll be _fine._ “But, uh, is it far? Because I _do_ have to be at work tomorrow morning.”

“We’re not leaving the city,” George promises. “Just a few minutes away from here, actually.”

He follows George into the elevator and down to the street, over to a cab waiting out front. They load their bags in the trunk.

“West 60th and Broadway, please,” George tells the driver. Alex refers to his mental map of the city, comes up with nothing aside from the shops inside the Time Warner Center. But it doesn’t explain the change of clothes.

“Burr said you dropped a couple of Conway’s charges in exchange for the plea,” Alex says for lack of anything better to say, once they’re seated inside the cab. “And he’s eligible for parole?”

“In 44 years,” George answers, matter-of-fact. On autopilot, Alex imagines, after the countless phone calls with the press, the countless meetings. “Dismissed the felonious assault and possession of a firearm in a bar. The victims’ families don’t have to go through a trial, the judge’s calendar is opened up, our schedules are cleared — everyone’s happy.”

He nods and twists around so he can stare out the window and watch the other cars as they zigzag through the morning traffic. George quietly scrolls through his phone, sips coffee from his travel mug. Not even ten minutes later their driver drops them off on a street corner and George hoists their bags from the trunk, leads him down the sidewalk. And as soon as Alex looks up, sees the two tall towers, silver-blue in the sunshine, he knows exactly where they are.

“The Mandarin?” he asks as they step up to the entrance, one of the bellhops stepping forward to grab their bags. “George — ?”

George places a hand on the small of his back, instantly calming him as he guides him inside the lobby — it’s all black marble floors and golden lighting.

“It wasn’t my first choice,” George says quietly as they wait in line behind two women in sleek business suits. “But I hear it’s lovely.”

“Why are we here?”

“Well, I thought we could either stay at my place for the day, do the same old, same old, or go somewhere with a spa and room service and a fully-stocked bar. Think of it as a little day trip without having to leave our own backyard.” George looks at him curiously. “Are you all right?”

Alex doesn’t answer, just falls silent as they step up to the front desk. He half-listens while George speaks with a woman with heavy eyeliner and matching glossy black hair. “ _Yes, Mr. Washington, we have you down for an early check-in — It’s our pleasure, sir. — I think you’ll enjoy the Oriental Suite, the view is spectacular — I’ll just need your credit card.”_

The bellhop carries their bags to the elevator before George slips him a tip, a small handful of bills Alex doesn’t count, and then they’re left alone, just the quiet buzz of the elevator as they head to the 52nd floor.

“George, I can’t stay the night here,” Alex says, suppressing the urge to apologize. He didn’t ask for this. It’s not his fault. “I figured we were just spending the day together. I still have to pick up the kids from school — ”

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” George says, smiling, almost proud. “I called Angelica last night. She agreed to pick up Angie and Will from school. She’s going to take them over to her place for the night and keep them entertained.”

That catches Alex off-guard. She’s helped with the kids here and there, sure, but it’s been a quiet standoff since their spat, both of them refusing to budge. “She did?”

“She did.” George pauses for a minute, studies Alex. Alex can almost feel some of the energy, the fervor drain from him. “Of course, Alex, if you don’t want to stay I understand. I know I didn’t warn you, maybe I should have —”

“No, no, no. It’s fine,” Alex says quickly, holding up one hand as the elevator reaches their floor with a quiet _ping._ He’d hate for George to feel guilty, after all the money he’s spent on the suite, the time he spent planning this outing for them. He can handle a surprise. Sure, he’s not entirely thrilled George messed with his kids’ schedules — that, he thinks was an overstep — but he can force himself to move past it for now. Perhaps it’s a conversation for another day. George sent a murderer to prison. It’s his first day off in almost a year. They should both enjoy this.

The woman at the front desk certainly didn’t lie — the view from the Oriental Suite is _stunning,_ with dark wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows that open up to a view of the skyline and the park. Alex does a quick walk-through as George sets their things in the bedroom. There’s a study, a pantry and kitchenette, a living and dining area and, finally, a bathroom with the same black-marble floors from the lobby with a porcelain soaking tub and separate shower and a goddamn flatscreen television mounted across from the tub. Even the bathroom has a wall of windows. The suite has more than they could ever need for one night’s stay.

He finds George in the bedroom, shrugging off his coat and hanging it in the closet. The room is just as beautiful as the rest of the suite with a vase of roses on the side table and a bright white bedspread with golden accent pillows.

“Hey,” he says, stepping up behind George and kissing the back of his shoulder. “This is amazing. There’s a TV in the bathroom. Thanks for bringing me here.”

George turns around, cups Alex’s face with both hands and kisses him. He holds him there for a few quiet seconds, smiling down at him. “I’m sorry it’s only for one night. Sometime, maybe soon, if we can, I’d like for us to go on a real trip. Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”

“Yes,” Alex answers without a moment’s hesitation. After last week he feels like he’s holding George’s heart in his hands, like one wrong move could send them into a downward spiral they won’t recover from, push them a little closer to that expiration date. He wants so badly to please George, to make him happy in any way he can. Overcompensate for his inability to be the person George needs. “If we can figure it out. I mean, Angelica always takes the kids to Disney for a week before Christmas…”

“Maybe we could go then,” George says thoughtfully, dropping his hands to Alex’s waist and giving him a quick squeeze before releasing him. He picks a pamphlet off one of the bedside tables and sits down on the edge of the mattress, paging through it. “Is there anything you wanted to do before we head down for lunch? There’s a vitality pool in here somewhere, and I’m sure we could find a pair of swim trunks for you at the hotel boutique.”

Alex shrugs, not bothering to hide his indifference. He sits next to George on the bed, one hand moving to rest on his thigh and giving George what he hopes is a sweet smile. “There’s a tub in the bathroom. Why don’t we just skip buying trunks and looking at half-naked strangers and stay in the room?”

They spend the better part of the hour soaking in a bubble bath that smells like a jasmine bouquet, George’s thighs spread so Alex can rest comfortably against his chest as they flip through channels. It’s not long before they give up on the lineup of daytime talk shows and soap operas, turning the television off altogether. A bit of water splashes over the edge of the tub as they readjust, after George complains about a cramp in his thigh, and then they’re silent again, gazing over Central Park.

He expects George to touch him under the water, to kiss him in a way that demands something more. But aside from the warm hand resting low on his belly and the closed lips pressed into his hair, George stays still, doesn’t push for anything. Alex’s heart hurts with a realization he’s had over and over again. This — _thing_ — they have. It all feels muddy in his head, no clear end or beginning. But this is where they are now.

“We should probably start getting ready,” Alex says, though he doesn’t know the time. Suddenly, the oversized tub feels too intimate. He climbs out, wrapping a towel around his waist and handing a second one over to George as he follows after him. He resists the urge to grab George, to touch him, as they tug on clean pants and shirts — put things back in order, realign their priorities, remind George what this is all for.

George catches him staring, smiles as he fastens his belt. “We have all day,” he reminds Alex, voice low. “Don’t worry.”

The tea lounge is cozy with warm tones, marble-topped tables and the same view of the city skyline through the large windows. Their waitress seats them under a large, abstract canvas painting. Lots of oranges and dark greens and yellows. He thinks he can make out a lamp post, a rain-soaked street. He stares up at it a bit longer than necessary while George examines the one-page menu.

“He’ll have a pear white tea, I’ll try the Earl Grey vanilla creme to start.” George orders without consulting him. It’s kind of their thing now: George orders for him, makes a guess, Alex loves it. It’s a little unnerving, sometimes, George’s ability to just _know._

George steps out to the bathroom before their waitress returns, carrying two cast-iron pots and two tiny handleless tea cups on her tray.

“Could I interest you in any of our scones? Sandwiches?” she asks, pouring their tea. We have pumpkin and gingerbread scones, for the season, as well as traditional English.”

“I should wait until my, uh  — until he gets back, probably,” Alex says, haphazardly waving in the direction of the bathroom and nearly knocking his cup over in the process. The waitress gives him a funny little smile.

“Where are you two from?”

“Oh,” Alex laughs, a little huff through his nose. “Here. It’s just a little getaway. His idea.”

“Huh,” she scoffs, raising both eyebrows. “I wish _my_ husband was that creative.”

She leaves to greet another table, leaving Alex quiet and stunned in his seat just as George returns. He must be wearing his bewilderment on his face. George nudges him with the toe of his shoe when he sits back down.

“What’s that look for?”

Alex grins and scoots his chair in a little further, lowers his voice.

“The waitress thinks we’re married. Do you think we could use that to our advantage? Say we’re celebrating an anniversary and get a free meal?”

George’s smile wavers a little and Alex swallows, hard, worried he’s said something wrong. But then George rolls his eyes, good-natured.

“As if the cost of the meal is any concern to you,” he points out, a teasing edge to his voice.

Alex grins behind his menu and George touches his leg under the table again, this time a gentle graze up his calf that gives him goosebumps, makes the room feel ten degrees cooler and ten degrees hotter all at once.

When their waitress returns, George politely asks if the kitchen can rush their orders.

—

Twenty minutes, give or take, Alex finds himself sprawled out on his back, a pillow under his hips, bare from the waist down and safe in their suite, the afternoon sun high in the sky.

His eyes roll back in his head from the first slow blow of air and, then, George doesn’t ease him into it, he’s working him open with exaggerated, wet, messy sounds, soaking him with saliva. Alex digs his heels into the mattress, tries to keep himself from twisting away from the sensation. The pleasure, with no buildup, no warning is almost too much. Or maybe it’s just not enough. It’s hard to tell, when his vision is blurred with tears and he can’t even recognize the noises spilling out of his own lips.

“George,” he chokes out, the muscles in his legs tightening, but he doesn’t finish the thought  — isn’t positive he ever planned to. He gasps, blinks, feels a wet trickle down his temple and prays George doesn’t notice. But he’s occupied, tirelessly burying his tongue further and further inside, around him, letting Alex feel the occasional graze of teeth.

Alex turns his head, looks out at the skyline and thinks that, if he were to die like this, it certainly wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Spread out across a down comforter in a 5-star hotel, George between his legs, tearing him open like a present. George pulls back after a few long minutes, lips red and glossy, pupils blown, framed by Alex’s trembling thighs.

“You feel like you’re going to vibrate out of your own skin,” George says, stroking a broad palm up and down Alex’s thigh. He kisses his kneecap. “Is it too much?”

“No,” Alex says, ashamed of the way his voice cracks. “No, no, keep going.”

George doesn’t need to be asked twice. Alex closes his eyes and relaxes, boneless, jaw slack. George’s hands land on his hips, holding him still and tight. He doesn’t bother to ask George to touch him, knows he’s making him wait it out, knows it’ll be useless  —

And then, he hears a buzz. He opens his eyes, brow furrowed, and listens closer. He can tell, from the next round of buzzing, it’s coming from the floor. He glances over the edge of the bed, sees his iPhone vibrating out of his pants pocket and across the floor.

“Hey, wait  — ” Alex says, pushing himself up on his elbows. George pulls back, face creased with concern.

“Alex?”

“My phone, it’s ringing. Could you  — ?”

George blinks, taking a moment to collect himself. He throws both legs over the edge of the bed and picks up the phone, pointedly avoids reading the caller ID as he hands it over to Alex. Alex scrambles to sit up against the headboard and snatches the phone out of George’s hand.

 _Berkeley Carroll School_ , he reads off the screen, his breath freezing in his lungs. He grabs George’s hand without thinking, squeezes his fingers as tight as humanly possible. George squeezes back, watches quietly as Alex accepts the call.

_“Mr. Hamilton? This is Berkeley Carroll, I’m calling about your daughter, Angelica? We’d like you to come in right away.”_


	20. Chapter 20

The numbness settles in after Alex ends the call. George is still sitting across from him on the bed, holding his hand with the quiet patience Alex has learned to expect from him. Sweet, steady, calm. He runs his thumb back and forth over Alex’s knuckles once, twice, then squeezes.

“What did they say?”

Alex pulls his hand away and rubs it over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well. She hit another girl in the face. With a ball. During gym.”

“Is Angie all right?” If George is panicked, he doesn’t show it, and Alex knows he’s supposed to find some comfort in that, some solace, and yet...

“ _Angie_ is fine,” Alex says, throwing his legs over the edge of the mattress and climbing off the bed. The room is thick with the scent of sex. He feels disgusting, likely looks disgusting. George’s eyes are on him as he picks his clothes off the floor and rummages through his bag. “But the other girl might have a broken nose. And guess who’s going to get saddled with that bill?”

George stays silent for a moment, half-watching as Alex tugs on his underwear and pants and pulls a fresh shirt over his head. “Why would she do that?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Alex spits, and there’s more heat behind it than he intended, an aggressive edge, like a freshly-sharpened knife. George sits up a little straighter, clearly taken aback. “She’s never acted out! And now she’s been in trouble twice? And it’s barely been a month? It’s like I don’t even know — never mind. She’s grounded, on top of whatever else the school wants to do with her — ”

George stands and crosses the room, tall and towering over Alex. He freezes in place as George rests two hands on his shoulders, runs them up and down his arms and over his sleeves like he’s trying to warm him up, get his blood flowing. But it only makes Alex feel smaller than he is, like he wants to retreat within himself.

“How about this,” George says, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind his ear. “Why don’t you jump in the shower, just for a couple minutes. Clean up. I’ll come with you to pick her up. And, Alex…”

He hesitates for a long moment, his hands stilling on Alex’s shoulders.

“You know I have access to a lot of resources, through the courts. A lot of children who deal with loss don’t channel their pain in healthy ways, they need an outlet.”  

Alex takes a step back, brushes away his hands, and looks up warily. “I’m sorry?”

He watches the uncertainty, the moment of alarm flicker across George’s face. He tries to close the distance between them again, tries to reach out to him, but Alex steps aside swiftly.

“I don’t know what you have or haven’t tried,” George sighs, arms falling down to his sides, resigned. “But don’t you think? If this keeps happening…?”

“No,” Alex swallows, shaking his head. “No, listen — just because you’re fucking me? That doesn’t mean you get a say in anything I do with my kids, OK? You’re not my boyfriend, you’re not their dad —”

“Alex,” George says, shocked and pained all at once. “Slow down.”

“I just wish she were here,” Alex chokes through an unexpected dry sob. He tears his eyes away from George, crosses his arms tight across his chest and squeezes. “She always knew what to do. She would know what to do.”

“I know,” George says, his shoulders slumped, defeated. “Alex, I know, and I want to help. I care about you, and the kids. So much. I don’t want to step out of line-”

Alex looks at him and laughs, dark and unkind, even as he registers the fear in George’s eyes. “You completely went behind my back to rearrange the kids’ schedules today. So you could take me here. To this hotel. As a surprise. Which, I’ll add, since you apparently didn’t realize when you booked it, is right by Columbus Circle.”

He watches the realization quietly dawn on George’s face and feels his own guilt settle in. He knows George would never hurt him, never be so intentionally thoughtless, but Alex is on a roll now, gaining momentum the angrier he gets.

“I didn’t think-”

“You didn’t,” Alex agrees, zipping his backpack shut and throwing a strap over one shoulder. “I hate surprises. I don’t want to be anywhere near this part of town. I don’t want unsolicited advice on how to take care of my kids when it’s already hard enough, OK? I told you I’m not ready for this!”

He watches the steady rise and fall of George’s chest, notices the set of his jaw, and feels an undercurrent of anger. He can tell George is holding back, remaining perfectly in control, yet boiling under the surface.

“I thought we were still friends,” George says evenly. “A month ago you wouldn’t have reacted like this. Aside from all of this, I thought we were still friends.”

“How do you expect me to compartmentalize this?” Alex demands. “How do you expect me to tell the difference? You literally _just_ told me you don’t want this to be just _a thing_ we do anymore. I told you I wasn’t ready, and you responded by doing — by doing all of this!”

He waves an arm around the bedroom. The ornate king-sized bed, the roses on the side table, the view of the Manhattan skyline. George sits heavily on the bed, sighs, and for the first time Alex watches him blink back tears.

“You’re right,” he says, barely above a whisper, voice strained. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“OK,” Alex says, swallowing, trying not to waver. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like knowing he’s the one who’s made George _feel_ like this. He sits down in the armchair and pulls on his socks and shoes, palms damp from sweat. “I need to pick up my daughter.”

George leaves without a word, lets Alex quietly collect his phone and unplug his charger. He’s opening a green bottle of Glenfiddich at the bar when Alex cautiously walks back into the main room.

“I’ll text you after things calm down at home,” Alex says after a quiet moment, once his heart has stopped leaping and pounding inside his chest. George’s eyes flicker over to him, just briefly, before he drags them away again.

“There’s no rush,” he says, almost cold as he bends down to grab a glass out from under the bar. “It’s clear we need some space.”

Alex doesn’t respond to that even as his stomach plummets. He slips out into the hallway and tries to refocus, reorder his priorities. Angie. He needs to get to his daughter.

—

He signs the paperwork for Angie’s suspension in the main office. Three days. Next time, the secretary says, if there is a next time, it could be up to a week. After that? She’ll be expelled.

“You signed the paperwork before you even talked to me! Why wouldn’t you even try to appeal it?” Angie cries as soon as they get home.

Alex is drained, feels pulled in so many different directions he doesn’t even know which way is up, or where he should turn. He falls onto the couch, holding his head.

“She didn’t do anything to you,” Alex groans into his palms without looking up. “It was a volleyball game.”

“She kept screening!” Angie yells, voice raw from crying. The sound of it rips through Alex. “My team couldn’t see their server-”

“That’s not a reason to nearly break someone’s nose!” Alex interrupts. He looks at her now, heart skipping. He’s never yelled at her like this, never _had_ to. “Ang, what’s going on with you? Your mother put you into this school for a reason, if you keep this up, that’s going to be for nothing.”

Angie takes a step back, eyes wide, like she’s been slapped. “Dad.”

“This isn’t even a conversation,” Alex says, voice raised as he pulls himself upright. “You’re grounded. Two weeks. I’ll see you for dinner.”

Angie sniffs, rubs at her wet eyes with the heels of her hands and grabs her backpack off the floor. Alex watches her closely, takes in her red, swollen eyes, the blotchy cheeks. Suddenly, there’s not nearly enough air in the room. He feels compelled to gather her in his arms, like he did the summer she scraped her knee while playing in the fountains at J.J. Byrne. Eliza had patched it up, he pretended to kiss it better. But then Angie’s gone, climbing to the top of the staircase before he can get another word in.

He pulls up Berkeley Carroll’s grade portal on his MacBook while he waits for his coffee to brew. Straight As almost entirely across the board, but there’s a B- in public speaking. He tries to click through to see a breakdown of assignments, but there’s nothing. It’s not a bad enough grade to warrant concern or a call home. But it’s not like Angie. Not the Angie who fumes over an 89%, or complains to teachers about misleading, underdeveloped essay questions. No. He would’ve heard about this by now.

It’s another conversation for another day, though. He closes his laptop and grabs his phone instead, heading toward his bedroom. No missed calls, no texts. He opens up his messages with George, starts to draft a text.

 _Hey. Got her home okay. Everything’s going to be fine. No need to reply or anything but I wanted you to_   

He quickly taps the backspace button before he finishes it and exits out of the message entirely. _Everything’s going to be fine?_ He drops the phone onto the bedspread, abandons it there. Fuck it.

The heat from the shower makes him sleepier than he already is, even after the fresh coffee. But it feels good to be clean. To, in a sense, wash off the day’s setbacks and failures. He spares another look at his phone when he crawls into bed. Still nothing. He doesn’t know what to expect; George apologized, Alex walked out. _Space,_ he reminds himself as he falls into a light, dreamless sleep. Right. George had insisted on _space_.

It’s the sound of Will’s voice, calling out for him in the living room, that wakes him, followed by the gentle creak of his bedroom door. Bleary-eyed, he makes out Angelica’s trim silhouette, backlit in the threshold.

“Alex? What are you doing home?”

—

They sit on Alex’s bed in silence for a few minutes, Angelica staring down at her folded hands and Alex at his feet, barely breathing. She finally exhales through her nose, shakes her head.

“Suspended.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Alex says, miserable. “If this keeps happening, if she gets a record? She can say goodbye to Columbia, Princeton...I looked at her grades, too. She practically has a _C_ in public speaking. She never told me she was struggling with that class.”

Angelica gives him a withering look. “This isn’t just about getting into a good college, Alex. You have to know that.”

“I _do_ know. I just can’t stop thinking about what Eliza would think of this,” he admits, softening. “I’m not doing a good enough job. I feel like I’m letting her down. These are her kids, too, and if she knew I’m barely keeping things together, that I can’t even take care of my own daughter? I wasn’t made to do this. It was just in her blood, you know? She inspired me to be better, to be a better dad, and now…”

He trails off helplessly, feeling the tears he didn’t shed back at the hotel start to prickle at the corners of his eyes. Angelica’s face grows very still.

“That’s bullshit.”

He frowns. “It’s the truth.”

“I’m serious, Alex. Eliza’s gone. And she’s not coming back. If you keep fixating on what she would’ve wanted or the way our lives were before, it’s not going to get you, me, or the kids anywhere. We’ll be stuck. There’s no happy ending for any one of us if we don’t keep looking forward. And I know Eliza — _knew_ her. And, trust me, I know it’s overdone: ‘She wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this.’ But there’s truth to that, Alex. Above anything else, she would’ve wanted all of us to be happy. To go on. Philip, too. If Angie needs help, you have to give it to her. No one expects you to do this alone.”

It’s like a crisp punch in the gut when he’s already on the ground, but he nods through it anyway, his mind unwillingly slipping back to thoughts of George. The same tension from earlier creeps back over him and finds its way underneath his skin. It’s such a sharp contrast to how fulfilled — how _content_ — he feels when they’re at their best, shut away from the world. He’s never quite thought it through, what Eliza would think of George. They’ve always been so separate in his mind, yet somehow one and the same. He shakes it off, eyes back on Angelica.

“What do you mean?”

Angelica shrugs.

“Eliza was the social worker, you know? I don’t know a lot about this, but the aggression at school, her grades dropping? That sounds pretty textbook to me. I can sort through Eliza’s old contacts, see what I can dig up.” She rests a hand over his knee. “I know it sounds scary. But we’ve all just been doing the best we can. It’s OK to ask for help.”

“George wanted to get her help, too,” Alex mutters, eyes back on his socked feet. “I just don’t want her to feel like there’s something wrong with her.”

“She lost her brother and her mother. That’s not something she’s going to recover from if it’s just swept under the rug. It would be a good idea, maybe, to even sign Will up for a few sessions. And if you ever-”

“Let’s just start with the kids,” Alex says quickly. Angelica smiles.

“We’ll start with the kids.” She stands up, tugging down the skirt of her dress. Her lips quirk down into a frown. “Where’s George, by the way? I figured he’d come with you.”

Alex forces a smile. “I told him to just stay at the hotel. Thanks. For offering to take care of the kids.”

“Of course,” Angelica says, warm. “So, where’d he end up taking you?”

“The Mandarin.”

“Oh,” Angelica shrugs. “I knew it was between that and the Plaza. Well, you should go back to him tonight. If you’re up for it. I can hold down the fort here.”

“No,” Alex says quickly. Angelica’s smile falters. “No. I’m going to stay home tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Ah,” Angelica says knowingly. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“OK,” she says, quiet and kind. “I think I’m going to head home. I’ll let you know what turns up.”

“Thanks,” he hesitates, watching her head for the door. “Angelica, wait a second.”

She turns back, curious.

“I’m really sorry,” he sighs, and he feels the weight, the guilt he’s been carrying on his shoulders since their fight, start to roll right off. “About Jefferson, about London, about all of it. I just wish you’d told me. But I’m sorry.”

She gives him a weak, relieved smile. For a second, she looks like she might run back across the room and drag him into her arms.

“I’m sorry, too. Can we not fight anymore?”

“That would be great,” Alex says, smiling — _really_ smiling — for what feels like the first time in hours.

Angelica stalls for a moment, hand on the door knob. She turns back around, takes a little breath.

“I don’t know what happened with you and George today. But whatever you did, or whatever he did, that’s worth working through, too. I can see it in your face whenever you talk about him, that stupid way you grin whenever you read his texts.”

Alex flushes red. “I don’t really know what’s going to happen with us. I have to think.”

“Well,” Angelica shrugs a shoulder. “You’ll know what to do when it’s time.”

Alex frowns up at her, turns the sentence over in his mind once, twice. He knows he’s heard it before and, God, it feels like it happened so long ago, but it clicks, finally, a lightbulb over his head.

“You, Martha Custis and Adrienne,” he says. “You traded pie recipes after Thanksgiving, right?”

“We did,” Angelica says slowly. “Why?”

“Could you give me Martha’s number? I need to talk to her.”  



	21. Chapter 21

He meets Martha at a little cafe in the Upper East Side, just south of St. Catherine’s Park. Despite the cramped seating space, he has to admit it’s cute — wooden floors, brick interior, shelves full of little trinkets. He buys himself a coffee and waits at a table by the front window, nervously stirring in a couple packets of sugar and cream. He doesn’t usually have a taste for it but this morning, he thinks, he might need the pick-me-up.

Martha breezes in shortly after, wearing a blue Yale t-shirt and yoga pants, hair pulled up into a ponytail, a sweater tied around her waist. She gives the barista a little smile and wave before joining Alex at their table.

“Sorry I’m a little late, dear,” she says, scooting her chair in. “And thank you for agreeing to meet on my side of town.”

“No problem.” Alex nods down at his coffee. “You want anything? Coffee? Bagel?”

Martha waves a hand and places an oversized bottle of water on the table. “Oh, no. It’ll mess with my stomach, if I have anything right after yoga. But thank you. How are you doing? How’s your sister? How’d she like that chocolate pecan pie recipe?”

“She brought it over for dinner a couple nights ago. It was delicious.” Alex takes a long sip of his coffee. It’s too hot. He swallows it down anyway, grimacing. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something more personal.”

Martha cocks her head to one side. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s about George.”

“Ah,” Martha says, lips curling with a knowing smile. “I never did get an update.”

“Wait, really?” Alex asks, trying and failing to disguise his surprise. It certainly feels like everyone else in the Tri-state area knows. “I mean, I did ask him to keep everything between the two of us. I guess I just figured word got around, anyway.”

“That you two have been fooling around?” she asks with such an air of nonchalance that it makes Alex sputter in his coffee. She smirks. “George’s lips may have been sealed, sweetheart, but I’ve known him for a long time. And I’m not blind."

Alex feels his face heat up. He’s itching to ask what, exactly, made it so obvious? Did George walk around the office, proud and overconfident? Was it the long lunch breaks? A new fixation with his iPhone? Did George get flustered when he talked about him? _Did_ George talk about him? He tries to smile back at Martha, a little shy. He really doesn’t want this woman he’s met a total of one time picturing him in any sort of compromising position with her best friend and colleague.

“We were just having fun,” Alex finally manages. “We agreed not to define anything and see where things go, and-”

He hesitates a moment, bites back his words. There are some things, he knows, that should stay only between himself and George.

“It’s just gotten a little messy,” he summarizes. “I don’t know what the next step is, or if there’s even a next step.”

Martha is silent and Alex watches her carefully, senses she’s reading between the lines.

“I’m sorry if I’m throwing too much at you,” he says quickly. “But you’re the only person I know who’s gone through this.”

“Alex,” Martha says, flashing a hesitant smile. Even without all the makeup she wore on Thanksgiving, Alex is struck by her beauty, her post-yoga glow. “Can I be frank?”

“Please.”

“You’re searching for someone to give you permission to love again.”

“Whoa, wait.” Alex laughs, a little frantic, tries to hide it by taking another sip of coffee. It’s only marginally cooler. “No one said anything about ‘love.’”

“It doesn’t matter,” Martha shrugs. “My point still stands. No one can give you permission. Not Angelica, George, your children, your wife and certainly not me. That’s all on you. If you focus on pleasing everyone you’re not going to get anywhere.”

“I’m just not sure I’m ready for what he wants,” Alex says, voice low. He folds his paper napkin twice. It gives his hands something to do. “But it’s fucking stupid because, at the same time, I can’t imagine where I’d be without him.”

Martha nods, understanding. “If George is pushing you or pressuring you into something you’re not ready for, he might not be the one for you. But you shouldn’t close yourself off or hide from your own feelings because you’re worried about what people will say or think. You might not spend the rest of your life with George, but at least you’ve let someone in.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Alex says. “It’s different for you. Your kids are grown. But Angie and Will are still so young. I can’t bring someone into their lives if they’re going to turn around and walk back out again a year or two later.”

“George isn’t the type.” Alex wants to ask what she means, but Martha presses on. “And there’s no rule that says you have to tell your kids right away. Give it a few months, make sure it sticks, and tell them when you’re ready. Alex, it’s OK to be a little selfish.”

Alex skeptically arches a brow. Martha smiles.

“I mean it,” she says. “We’d do anything to protect our kids. But you’ve got to give yourself something.”

Alex stares down into his empty coffee mug, breathes in slowly through his nose. “What was it like for you? The first guy you dated after Daniel?”

“Well, I ended up dating one of his doctors, believe it or not,” Martha says with just a ghost of a smile. “We waited about four months after he passed which, in hindsight, was far too soon. But it lasted just barely over a year. I realized I was still holding on to Daniel through this man who held my hand every step of the way. I wasn’t doing myself any favors.”

He tries to picture life a year from now, a life with George, and comes back with nothing. But it’s no surprise. These days, he can barely even think as far as a month ahead.

“I just don’t think we can take another heartbreak.”

“You might not get it right the first time but that’s OK,” Martha admits, shrugging a shoulder. She gives him a cheeky little smile. “Now, you know how I feel about George. You could certainly do a lot worse.”

“I know,” Alex mutters, nudging his mug around in a circle. “But don’t you ever think it would be easier to just be alone?”

Martha rolls her eyes fondly. “What was your wife’s name, Alex?”

“Eliza.”

“And how did you feel before you met Eliza?”

Alex gives her a wry smile. He knows what she’s doing. “I thought I was going to be alone.”

Martha mirrors his smile. “And she turned out to be the love of your life. No one should have to go through what we went through. But look at it this way — we both have an opportunity to experience something that changed our lives, twice.”

He sucks his bottom lip in over his teeth, bites down and nods. He doesn’t know if he feels better or worse. Mostly, he just feels tired. “OK. Thank you.”

Martha digs around in her purse, pulls out her phone and taps a few buttons with pink perfectly-manicured nails. She places it face-up on the table. A photo stares back at him — it’s a younger Martha sitting next to a hospital bed, smiling, her hand resting on the arm of a bald man with a long, narrow face, hooked up to an array of IVs and machines. Alex swallows.

“Is that Daniel?” he asks needlessly.

“Yes.” Martha stares down at the photo for a moment, fingering the chain around her neck, a smile playing on her lips. “About a month or so before I lost him.”

It occurs to Alex that Martha has never seen a photo of Eliza or Philip, that he should reciprocate. He takes out his own phone and swipes to his favorite — the one of Eliza in her blue wrap dress and Philip in his graduation cap and gown.

“That’s Eliza. And this is my son, Philip.”

“Oh,” Martha sighs, brown eyes following where he points. “George had mentioned you lost your boy, too.”

Alex feels a familiar tickle in his throat. He swallows it down. “This was the day he graduated high school.”

“He was very handsome,” Martha says, still smiling down at the photo. “He looks so much like you. And your wife — absolutely stunning.”

“Thank you,” he says, and a sense of pride replaces the tightening in his throat. “Philip graduated with honors. He went to Columbia, of course. Like me. He was studying political science.”

“Columbia,” Martha repeats. She tears her eyes away from the photo, looks up at him. “Is that where you and your wife met, then?”

Alex relaxes into his chair, smiles. “Let me grab another coffee first.”

—

His conversation with Martha sticks in his memory all weekend, but he doesn’t send a single text to George. He knows that, when he does, he has to be ready with...something. An apology? A solution? An ‘I’m ready’? An ‘I’m not ready, but please don’t give up on me’? He’s just as afraid of what George will say, wonders if he’s made up his mind. Maybe, Alex thinks, he’s already done.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

It’s another godforsaken Monday morning at the _Gazette_ , and he doesn’t care so much about Burr’s answer. Just wants to make conversation, distract himself as he sets up his laptop. And, well, he supposes they _are_ kind of friends now.

“I did, thanks. Theo and I did a dinner and a movie,” Burr answers cheerily, walking out from behind his cubicle, newspaper in hand. He tosses it onto Alex’s desk, Lifestyles front page up. A studio shot of Maria Clinton stares up at him. “Hey man, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your profile on Jefferson supposed to run on Saturday?”

Alex shrugs down at the paper. “Yeah, but I killed the story. Thought Maria would be better, you know? Republican governor’s youngest and prettiest daughter moves to the city on daddy’s dime, starts volunteering at Planned Parenthood and majors in women’s studies? Kind of has a sexy edge to it.”

“OK,” Burr says slowly, processing. “But did you clear it with Paine?”

“No?” Alex frowns. “But I’ve swapped out plenty of stories before. It’s not a big deal.”

Burr shoots him a worried look. “Well. He wants you in his office ASAP.”

Alex freezes.

“ _What_?”

“Hey,” Burr says, hands rising up in a surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. But, Alex? He didn’t seem too happy.”

Alex slams his laptop shut hard enough to make Burr jump back.

_Fuck._

—

He calls George’s cell phone first, hands shaking. When that goes straight to voicemail, he calls his office. It rings twice before Lafayette picks up.

“Gilbert,” Alex says, voice as steady as he can manage. “It’s Alex Hamilton.”

There’s a long pause on Lafayette’s end. An annoyed little huff. “What is it you need?”

“Can you put me through to George?” He pauses for a beat. “Please.”

“He is unavailable.”

Alex tries to collect himself, takes a look around Bryant Park from the bench he’s seated on. It’s mostly tourists at The Rink, the red and silver ornaments on the unlit Christmas tree glistening in the winter sunshine. He takes a breath. “Gilbert, could you please tell me when he’ll be available? I need to see him.”

There’s another quiet pause followed by a sigh. For whatever reason, Lafayette decides to take pity on him.

“Mr. Washington is working from home today,” Lafayette says. “I suspect you will find him at the Majestic.”

The call ends without warning, a sharp click. He looks back down at his phone, checks for missed calls or messages. Nothing. His heart sinks, but he fishes his MetroCard out of his wallet, slings his bag over his shoulder and joins the crowd making its way down the subway steps.

—

He knocks three times, almost uses his spare key before George finally opens the door, still in his T-shirt and boxer briefs, glasses perched on his nose. He blinks sleepily, squints at Alex.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says immediately, frozen in the threshold, heart thudding in his chest. He feels so stupid. Stupid for fighting with him in the first place, stupid for running to him now. “I just needed to talk to you, Angelica wasn’t in this morning, I needed someone that wasn’t Burr-”

“Alex, slow down.” George grabs him by the shoulders, hard but comforting, in a way. It brings Alex back down to Earth for a moment, helps him catch his breath while George pulls him inside and closes the door. He whirls back around to Alex, alert now, a panic in his eyes that matches the dread Alex feels in the pit of his own stomach. “What happened? Are you OK? The kids?”

There’s a swell of guilt, it hits him like a sharp slap to the face. He knows what this looks like. He nods quickly and feels the tension leave George’s body, sees it in the way his shoulders slump with relief.

“I just got chewed out at work,” Alex says, shrugging out of his coat and handing it to George. “Like, next-offense-and-you’re-fired type of chewed out. The really bad kind.”

George folds Alex’s coat over one arm, face softening. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”

“I can’t sit right now-”

“Alex,” George says, stern, no room for argument. “ _Sit._ ”

Alex listens, biting back a jab as George disappears into the kitchen. He feels like a bundle of nervous energy by the time he returns with two glasses of ice water. Alex takes a long sip, places it on a coaster when George wordlessly joins him on the couch.

“Should I leave? I can leave. I shouldn’t be unloading all of this on you, anyway, I-”

George reaches out, hand hovering over Alex’s knee before he pulls it back. He clears his throat. “Start from the beginning.”

“OK,” Alex nods, still wary, scanning George’s face. He can’t quite get a read on what he’s thinking or feeling, if he’s only trying to be amiable. “You remember the profile I was writing on Jefferson?”

He watches George’s eyes darken, a fist tighten in his lap. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything. Shocking, I know. But you remember I killed his story? After all of that shit he said about Angelica? And us.”

“Oh, I recall,” George says dryly.

“Well, my boss decided _that’s_ what he wanted to nail me for. Running a different story without his permission. I mean, it’s my fault — I should have known that, even if I was doing everything right, he’d still find _something._ ”  

“Why’s he out to get you?”

“Hell if I know! I mean, he’s never really liked me. Not a whole lot of people do.” George cocks his head to one side, frowns, but Alex pushes on. “I think he’s still kicking himself after he promoted me over Burr. Burr would never give him any pushback, you know, he’d just let Paine run the place.”

George frowns. “You shouldn’t work for someone who doesn’t listen to your input. Or use your strengths, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly that easy. I can’t just quit.” Alex laughs — it’s a strangled, broken sound. “But maybe it doesn’t even matter now. He’s going to find a reason to fire me, anyway.”

The living room grows silent until Alex can hear the distinct sound of the clock ticking above the fireplace. George finishes his glass of water, shakes the glass to stir the ice around.

“Alex. You know if anything were to happen with your job, I could take care of you.”

Alex jerks back, startled and almost disgusted by the thought of it — the idea of living up to all of Jefferson’s expectations, proving him right. George quickly grabs hold of his knee, like he’s trying to keep him from bolting.

“Let me rephrase. On the off chance something happens and you need help — a loan, anything — I don’t want you to feel like you have to go through this on your own.” He squeezes his knee. “I say this as someone who genuinely cares about you, Alex.”

Alex feels himself softening, his instinct to fight, to push away, growing weaker and weaker. His own hand uncurls and rests near George’s on his leg, fingertips brushing.

“I know,” he says. “I know. And I’m sorry about last week, I’m so sorry I lost my temper-”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” George assures him. “You had every right to be upset with me.”

“I should have talked to you sooner.”

“It doesn’t matter,” George says firmly. “I was wrong. And I’m going to keep trying to do this right. But I understand, I’ll never question you, if it’s too much. It’s OK if you can’t do this anymore.”

Alex gives him a small smile and covers George’s hand with his own, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering when George turns his own hand, palm up, and squeezes. His mind soars back to that night in his own kitchen, when he broke down in front of him for the first time — the first time he’d cried in front of anyone in months. He’d held his hand then, too. Steadfast, unwavering. He’d never asked for anything in return.

“You’re working from home today?” Alex asks, and then, off of George’s arched brow, “I may have called your office and talked to Lafayette.”

George lets out a little chuckle. Alex doesn’t miss the way George’s eyes flicker down to his lips. “I am. When are you headed back to the office?”

“I’m not,” Alex shrugs. “I took the rest of the day off. I had to leave before I did something stupid. Like quit.”

George raises both eyebrows. “Alex.”

“What?” Alex asks, pushing himself a little closer to George, his hand traveling down his inner thigh. He feels George’s leg tense under his hand. “I have, like, almost two weeks vacation left. If Paine wants to fire me, he’s going to have to get a little more creative.”

—

They make it to the bedroom without much conversation or fanfare. It’s a habit now, something they both find comfort in. He can practically feel the tension between start to evaporate with every kiss, every careful touch.

He has George laid out on his back, a leg thrown over either side of his hips, George’s dick buried inside him, and Alex has always liked this. A lot. It’s a favorite of his. Setting the rhythm, getting to watch the way George’s face contorts, figuring out what works and what doesn’t, how their bodies fit.    
  
“Less bouncing, a little slower. It’s not a race,” George instructs through gritted teeth, his hand flying up to grip Alex’s hip, steadying him.  
  
Alex quirks an eyebrow down at him and stops moving entirely. “I’ve done this a couple times before, you know.”  
  
“I’m very much aware.”  
  
Alex starts rolling his hips in slow, agonizing circles, grinding him in impossibly deeper, grinning when George’s eyes drift shut, jaw slack. “And I don’t think you’re really in a position to call the shots, being on your back and all.”  
  
George’s eyes flash open, he pulls his legs up, thighs against Alex’s back, and uses the new position as leverage to thrust up hard enough to tip Alex forward with a yelp. He nearly topples sideways, managing to catch himself by bracing his hands on George’s shoulders. He starts to laugh.  
  
“You are such a-”  
  
He doesn’t finish his sentence, though, because he’s suddenly so caught up in the way George is gazing up at him. A playful glint in his eye, a crooked, closed smile — a fondness he’s not even bothering to disguise anymore. The same way he looked at him the night he first watched the kids, the day after they met. Like he was the only thing worth looking at.

Alex realizes it’s a little like staring into a mirror.

“Hey,” George says after he’s been silent for too long, tracing little circles on the back of Alex’s hip with a thumb. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. It comes out a little breathless. He gives George’s shoulders a squeeze. “But my thighs are starting to feel it.” God. He really is terribly out of shape. “Do you care if I get on my back?”  
  
George shakes his head, so Alex rolls off of him and onto the other side of the bed, closing his eyes and spreading his thighs as wide as he can, the way he knows George likes. He licks a wet stripe down his palm and starts stroking himself off, pressing his head back into the pillow, the mattress shifting as George readjusts between his legs.  
  
He slides back in easily, batting Alex’s hand away and letting his forehead fall above his shoulder, lips angled toward his ear so Alex can feel the hot breath against his cheek, hear the way he pants, matching the steady rock of his hips. It makes Alex feel vulnerable and safe all at once — knowing he’s completely at George’s mercy like this, but trusting him wholeheartedly.  
  
Something clicks into place, and then he’s pressing his lips into George’s shoulder to keep from laughing. He’s shaking, too, like the temperature in George’s apartment has suddenly dropped 20 degrees. George must think he’s close — he picks up the pace, a hand reaching back to pull Alex’s thigh up just a bit higher, trying to find the right angle. Alex thinks, if he keeps this up, he actually will come, likely untouched, but he has to get this out now while it’s there, while the feeling is still so all-consuming and real.  
  
“George?” he says, kissing his shoulder for good measure, waiting for George to stop, come back down and refocus on him. Alex squeezes his bicep, takes in a deep breath. “I think I’m ready to do this.”  
  
George blinks down at him, spacey. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Me and you. I know it’s what you wanted and, well, I’m there. If you’re still game, I am.”  
  
It takes George a moment to catch up, so Alex quietly rubs his hand up and down his back, waiting.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You mean we’d be - ?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
A grin rapidly spreads across George’s face, and then he’s kissing along Alex’s jaw line, closed-mouthed and firm, before catching Alex’s lips with his own, breathing him in through his nose.  
  
“We’ll have to-” Alex moans and shivers against his chest as George starts moving again, slow and torturous. “Talk. More. Talk about this more.”  
  
“Now?” George asks, lips brushing his neck, feather-light, before nipping down. Alex clenches around him involuntarily, smirking to himself when George has to muffle a ragged groan with the pillow.  
  
“Later,” he agrees.

—

“Full disclosure,” Alex says afterwards when he’s draped over George’s chest, the bed sheets kicked off onto the floor, the muscles in his body more relaxed than they’ve been in months. “Martha knows.”

George snorts into his hair, calloused fingers dancing down his spine. “What did you do?”

“I needed to talk to someone. Someone who knew you and kind of...understood, you know?” Alex shrugs, laces his fingers through George’s. “Anyway, apparently you haven’t been very discreet. She knew the entire time.”

“Well, at least I didn’t send her a suggestive text.”

“Touché.” Alex pushes himself up for a quick peck, studies George’s face for any sign of apprehension or fear. He’s met with a content, tranquil smile. George reaches one hand up, cups his cheek with a broad palm.

“Are you happy?”

“Very,” Alex says as he’s pulled down for a longer, lingering kiss. He holds back everything he wants to say, doesn’t want to taint the moment. _It’s still a little scary. I still need you to be patient._ The difference now, though, is he doesn’t feel like he has to deal with this part of it alone. “There’s just one thing.”

“Of course.”

Alex rolls off him and onto his side, props himself up on one elbow. “Martha  — she had a good idea. I want to wait to tell the kids. I don’t know how long but just...I don’t really care who else knows. Just not the kids.”

“Absolutely.” George doesn’t hesitate. He runs a warm hand up Alex’s waist, makes his toes curl. “We’ll wait to tell the kids.”

“Oh, and Angie? Angelica agreed with you. We’re going to sign her up for therapy. Will, too.”

George’s eyes light up, the ghost of a spark. He squeezes Alex’s hip. “They’ll be all the better for it. I promise.”

Alex just nods, lowers himself down until he’s curled up against George’s side. He falls asleep like that, reveling in the warmth radiating off his body. He only stirs when George leaves him to grab his laptop, doesn’t relax until he’s next to him in the bed again, typing softly, a hand finding its way into Alex’s hair whenever he pauses to read.

This, he could get used to.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a-schuyler on tumblr! hit me up!

Alex expects there to be some sort of cosmic shift, a clear indicator that the thing between them is different now, that it means more.

He finds it in little ways.

It’s there in the _good morning_ and _goodnight_ texts they exchange, the way George’s hand will trail down to the small of his back and hold him against his side when he’s tired and there’s no room to sit on the train. It’s still a bit odd, getting a kiss goodbye out in plain sight and looking around to find that no one cares. It feels like everyone should be noticing, commenting. But, at the core, everything between them stays the same. George still kisses him in ways no one else has; somehow sweet and commanding and sensual all at once. He still fucks him with the same passion and careful attention he always has. And, after Angelica, George remains his closest friend and confidant. It’s suddenly clear that he and George were together long before Alex ever agreed to it. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised and yet he’s struck dumb by how easily and neatly everything falls into place.

It’ll be some time before they tell Angie and Will. After the holidays, he thinks, though he doesn’t tell George that — doesn’t want to put a date on it and get his hopes up. Still, it doesn’t stop him from inviting George over for family dinner later that week.

For someone without kids of his own, George is a natural. Alex has known it since the afternoon they met. But it’s still a treat to watch him with Will, who’s caught up in showing George every colorful book he managed to find at the school book fair. Alex smiles around a forkful of stirfry, watching George humor his son by flipping through each book he’s handed, listening intently to Will’s long-winded thoughts on characters and plot twists, the ways he would change the stories.

Alex barely notices the way Angie’s curious eyes dart between them.

They break out a couple bottles of wine after he’s sent the kids to bed. He adds a little extra to Angelica’s glass for good measure, and it’s with the firm weight of George’s hand on his thigh, under the table, that he manages to work up the nerve to break the news. Alex has known her long enough to read each head tilt, every clench of the jaw and flare of nostrils. But the smile she gives them is genuine, if not relieved.

“You’re good for him,” he hears Angelica whisper to George as she steps behind their chairs, her glass of chardonnay held perilously in one hand. She wraps one arm loosely around George’s neck and kisses the top of his head. “Welcome to the family.”

The stunned look that crosses George’s face in that moment makes Alex bite back a retort. Instead, he takes a hold of Angelica’s arm and tries to tug her away.

“We’re not telling the kids.” He exchanges a quick look with George, feels a warm swell in his chest when he’s met with an encouraging smile. “We just need to try this out ourselves for a while.”

“Smart,” Angelica says, grinning back at George and running a hand off his shoulder and down his arm, giving his bicep an experimental little squeeze. Alex shakes his head and takes the wine glass out of her hand, sets it on the table.

“I’m ordering you an Uber.”

He sits with Angelica on the front stoop, curled up in his own jacket, Angelica’s tweed coat draped over her shoulders. He breathes out, watches his breath frost in front of him. He can’t believe the year’s almost over.

“You really are happy for me?” he asks after a moment.

“Yes.” The answer comes without a beat of hesitation. Angelica angles her body toward him, eyes a little unfocused and glassy from the wine. “I won’t deny it’s hard to see you with someone else-”

“Angelica-”

“But he really is good for you,” she cuts him off, clumsily swatting his chest with the back of her hand. “I sincerely mean that. And the kids? They already love him. You have nothing to worry about. Will’s obsessed, and Angie — she can learn so much from him. You heard the way they spoke at dinner. Like two old friends.”

Alex smiles down at his shoes. “I know. It’s still just too soon.”

“I’ve never known you to be so patient, Alex,” Angelica says, standing unsteadily on her heels as her Uber pulls up to the curb. Alex rises to his feet and grabs hold of her elbow, leading her carefully down the steps.

“I’m trying to do things the right way,” he tells her, opening the rear door. “For Ang and Will. And George, too.”

He finds George polishing off his own glass when he returns to the dining room and Alex quickly realizes, out of the three of them, he’s the only one who hasn’t hit his limit. George, tipsy, inhibitions dimmed, reels him in against his chest. His breath is warm and thick with the scent of red wine, but that doesn’t stop Alex from tilting his head back for a kiss.

“I should be going home,” George says, hands firm on the narrowest part of his waist. He feels the hands slide lower until George is kneading his ass, a playful little smirk on his face Alex has never seen before, teasing him in a way that threatens to go straight to his dick.

“No, not like this, you’re not,” Alex says. He turns his head to one side and lets George kiss along the curve of his jaw, glances up to the top of the staircase out of habit, even though the kids haven’t stirred in over an hour. He swats George’s hands away and grabs hold of his wrist, pulling him toward the bedroom. “Give it twenty minutes and we’ll get you a car, too.”

George falls unceremoniously onto the fully-made bed, feet dangling off the edge. Alex bites back a laugh at the sight and slips off George’s shoes, setting them carefully on the floor and hanging his own jacket in the closet. He’s seen George like this —  buzzed and warm and handsy, yes — but never so loose and almost silly, so against his usual nature. The skin on George’s arm is warm to the touch when Alex curls up next to him.

“You’ve had a little too much,” Alex points out, hand hovering over George’s chest before he rests it there, carefully.

“Sorry,” George says, rolling his head across the pillow to look at Alex. “I was a little nervous.”

“There’s no need to be,” Alex says, rubbing his hand across the soft fabric of George’s shirt. “She’s happy. She’s fine. And why were you nervous? This is all new to _me_. I was with the same person for over twenty years, and before Eliza I was with John. That’s it.”

“You mentioned that,” George remembers. “But that’s not entirely unusual. You married young.”

“I mean, there were other people,” Alex says. He thinks it over for a moment, and adds, “ _A lot_ of other people. But it was just casual, typical college stuff.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” George says with a disgruntled huff, a possessive arm tightening around Alex.

“No?”

George shrugs a shoulder. “I told you I wasn’t out until my mid-30s. I dated a few men privately before then but never had much interest in the hookup culture — not that I’m judging you, of course.”

“Uh huh,” Alex says, unconvinced, gently kicking George’s leg. “How do you even know if you’re compatible with someone?”

George arches a thick eyebrow. “Talking to them?”

Alex makes an exaggerated gagging sound in his throat, laughing and pulling George back by the arm when he tries to roll away. “I’m teasing you. So I was your first fuck buddy?”

“That’s a bit crude,” George grumbles. “But yes.”

“I think it’s cute,” Alex says with a soft smile. “And I know, sorry. But you know it wasn’t easy for me, after everything that happened. I didn’t want to be with just anyone.”

Alex clears a tickle out of his throat, a little shocked by the way it’s starting to tighten. He’s never been a sappy guy, now’s not the time to start. “But why’d _you_ agree to it?”

George falls silent, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. For a moment, Alex worries he didn’t hear.

“Because I liked you,” George says, finally. “I knew you were a risk and that in all likelihood everything would blow up in my face — and it almost did. But I have you now, don’t I? So I think you were a risk worth taking, in the end.”

Alex pushes his face into George’s shoulder, a vain attempt to hide the blush he feels spread across his cheeks, the twinge of guilt from not fully realizing what their frenzied lunch break quickies, the afternoons and rare evenings spent lazily curled around each other did to George. For not realizing what the last few weeks have done to _him_. George’s fingers comb through his hair and tug the tangles apart, hitting a sweet spot between pleasure and the good side of discomfort. Alex adjusts himself so his cheek rests under George’s collarbone, and relaxes.

“You don’t have any crazy exes I have to worry about, do you?” Alex changes the subject. His cheek vibrates when George laughs.

“No one I’m still in contact with,” he says. “Mostly, we ended on good terms — thanks to differences and expectations that got in the way of anything longterm.”

“And the ones that didn’t end well?” Alex pries. He hears George sigh and adds, quickly, “Only if you want to talk about it.”

“It’s all right. You should know.” A lingering beat of tense silence. “But a couple years ago I had to end a seven-year long relationship.”

Alex pushes himself up on one arm to look at George, brow creased, more than a little taken aback. It feels like something George should’ve told him by now, a pretty fucking significant part of his life.

“Seven years?” Alex asks, and it comes out a little more accusatory than he intends. George winces. “That’s — George, that’s a long time to be with one person. And you never married him?”

“I would’ve loved to marry him,” George says, and Alex can tell he’s mostly sobered up now, hears it in the way his voice quietly drops. “But he would always brush off any conversation we had about it. He was already living with me, so what difference would marriage make? That’s what he said, anyway. He was always in London for work, flying out every other month or so, he’d stay for weeks.”

Alex’s face drops and he tucks his head under George’s chin again. He knows where this is going.

“I would usually just text or call his cell phone once the international service was set up. But on one occasion my calls weren’t going through. So I called the hotel his company booked for him, but there was no record of him ever checking in. Most people would panic, call the police. But at that point, everything was falling apart so rapidly, and I just had a gut feeling. When we finally did get on the phone together, I asked him about the hotel.” George snorts humorlessly, his hand stilling on the back of Alex’s neck. “He told me all about the Egyptian cotton sheets, the jacuzzi bath, the fitness center, the short walk to the shops on Oxford Street. He had so much to say about a place he’d never stepped foot inside. He even had the nerve to say he wished I was with him.”

“He was shacking up with some other guy in London,” Alex says, the side of his mouth pressed into George’s shirt.

“For at least six months, maybe longer. That’s all I could get him to admit to. He never once begged for forgiveness and I had no interest in salvaging the relationship. He ended up getting a permanent position in the UK, last I heard. So I hope they’re happy.”

“I hope they’re miserable,” Alex mutters.

“Well, yes,” George laughs lightly, face twisting into a grimace as he shifts his shoulders away from Alex. “You’re right on top of my arm. May I have it back?”

“Sorry,” Alex says, lifting his weight and letting George slide his arm out from underneath his body. Alex readjusts into the crook of George’s shoulder, letting the freed arm wrap around his frame. He thinks of his own dishonesty while juggling a myriad of partners throughout his early twenties, the gray area between John and Eliza, the laundry list of temptations he denied over the course of his marriage, the shame he felt just from sneaking a look whenever Mrs. Reynolds, Philip’s first nanny, would wear her short summer dresses. He wonders, now, if George would think less of him.

“Temptations are natural,” Alex says, careful, like he’s stepping through a minefield. “But to actually act on them and hurt the person you love? It makes sense, why you couldn’t forgive him. Why didn’t you ever mention him to me?”

“I don’t give him much thought these days,” George says. “We built a life together and he broke my heart. But it was two years ago. I had to move on. And now — well, I have you. Speaking of which, Lafayette and Adrienne want us to go out with them tomorrow night for dinner. And then there’s a Christmas party later this week in SoHo, some former colleagues are throwing it? I’d like you to join me.”

“A double date and a Christmas party,” Alex considers, his stomach already twisting into nervous knots. He wonders what it would look like, appearing on someone else’s arm the Christmas after his wife and son’s death. Not great, he decides. “That all sounds very coupley.”

“I won’t be upset if you say it’s too much,” George promises.

“The date, I can do,” Alex says, though he wonders why Lafayette, of all people, extended an invitation, after he’s been nothing but cold and aloof. “Can I have some time to think about the party?”

“Of course,” George says warmly, kissing the top of Alex’s head. He starts to push himself up to his elbows. “I feel much better now. Where’d you put my shoes?”

“No!” he cries, grabbing George’s arm. It comes out like a needy whine. That earns him a bemused look. Alex clears his throat, tries again. “Can’t I convince you to stay overnight?”

“The kids.”

“Wake up and leave early?” Alex suggests, sprawling out onto his back and stretching lazily, gazing up at George through his lashes. “They’ll never know you were here. I’ll wake up with you and make us breakfast.”

George looks down at him a moment, rolls his eyes fondly, and tugs his shirt off and over his head. “If you’re sure.”

They both climb off the mattress and Alex rolls back the duvet and bedsheets, freshly washed and silky-smooth from the fabric softener. George crawls back in first, rolling to one side and inching back to make a spot for Alex. It’s how they’d usually sleep — George’s knees tucked behind Alex’s, a strong arm thrown over his waist, hair tickling his nose. But Alex is struck with a new idea.

“Stay right where you are,” he says, crawling in behind George and fitting himself around his back. He drapes an arm over his waist, uses it as leverage to wrap himself even tighter around the shape of George’s body. He brushes his lips between his bare shoulder blades, closes his eyes.

“Is this good?”

George cranes his chin over a muscled shoulder to look back at him, humming happily when Alex pushes himself up for a kiss.

“Very good. Goodnight, Alex.”

He can tell from the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft snoring, that George drifts off first. It’s a little too warm, under a pile of blankets, pressed up tight against George’s back. But as much as he’d like to, Alex can’t bring himself to let go and roll back to a spot where the sheets are cool. So he falls asleep, Angie and Will upstairs, none the wiser, and a warm body wrapped in his arms.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a-schuyler.tumblr.com! hit me up on there!

The blare of a phone alarm jolts Alex out of one of the deepest sleeps he’s had in months. The room is still pitch black, no sunlight peeking through the curtains, just the far-off sound of tires on pavement through his bedroom window.

George stirs and fiddles with the alarm, Alex squinting against the harsh light of the phone screen and rolling away with a sleepy sigh.

“Will you turn that off?” Alex mumbles, folding one end of the pillow over his ear, letting his eyes drift shut. “What time is it?”

George taps the phone a couple more times and the alarm stops. The mattress shifts under Alex as George moves to kiss the top of his shoulder, propping himself up with one elbow.

“It’s 5,” he says, peeling the pillow away from Alex’s ear.

“Why.”

“Leaving early, remember?” George says, giving Alex’s shoulder a gentle shake. “And I was promised breakfast?”

Alex groans into his pillow, memories from the night before flooding back in. Agreeing to get up early and cook was, in hindsight, a huge mistake.

“I only said that to get you to sleep over,” Alex says, cocooning himself deeper into the duvet. Behind him, George is still.

“All right,” he says slowly, a bit dejected. “I’ll grab something from the corner store.”

He feels George slide off the bed followed by the creaking of floorboards while he collects his things in the dark. Alex sighs through his nose, guilt creeping in.

“Fine, sorry,” he says, flinging back the duvet and hauling himself up against the headboard, rolling out the kinks in his shoulders. George, nothing more than a gray silhouette, looks back at him. “I’m not much of a morning person, not that this is really the morning, it’s basically the middle of the fucking night-”

“Alex, it’s fine, you can go back to sleep.”

“No, no,” Alex grumbles, throwing his legs off the edge of the bed. “I’m going to make my boyfriend waffles.”

It’s a wonder he doesn’t burn his entire house down in his half-asleep state, but George pours him coffee and helps slice up a couple mangos and papayas while Alex fires up the waffle maker. Half an hour later, Alex drizzles the plate of fruit-topped waffles with a mango and passion fruit syrup.

“There you are,” he says, setting the plate on the kitchen island with a flourish. “It’s got fruit, so it’s a bit healthy?”

George smiles and slices off a corner with his fork, popping the piece into his mouth. “Aren’t you going to have some?”

“Nah,” Alex shrugs. “I’ll wait and eat with the kids. A little too sweet for me, anyway, but it’s Angie’s favorite so I always have the ingredients on standby.”

George eats the fruit first, checks the time on his phone and leaves half the waffles behind.

“I should head out now if I still want to get a morning run in,” he says, pecking the corner of Alex’s lips.

“Wait,” Alex says, grabbing his wrist as he turns toward the door. “I woke up in the dead of the night to make you waffles and I’m not getting a real kiss?”

“It was 5 a.m.,” George reminds him calmly, like a teacher with a disruptive student. “I’m not sure coffee, syrup and morning breath are an attractive mix.”

Alex scoffs. “You’ve literally shoved your tongue halfway down my throat after putting it up my ass, I don’t think-”

George cuts him off with a swift kiss that does indeed taste like sweet fruit syrup and Café Bustelo. Alex scrunches up his nose, but parts his lips wider.

“I’ll see you tonight for our date?” George asks once they part.

Alex stomach drops like a brick off a bridge. Right. He’d also agreed to a double date. He gives George a wide smile, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Yeah!” he says cheerily. “Can’t wait. I’ll come to your place after work.”

George frowns, cocks his head to one side. “Alex-”

“Just wait two seconds,” Alex interrupts, heading back toward his bedroom. “Do you mind taking some clothes home with you so I can just change there?”

 

—

 

Alex is paging through the _New Yorker_ when Angie comes downstairs — dark hair curled into soft waves and what appears to be a full face of makeup. He does a double-take and crosses his arms over his chest, watches her pluck a bottle of aloe juice from the fridge.

“Are your eyebrows filled in?” he demands. Angie rolls her eyes. He notices the curled, thick lashes, too. A thick line of black eyeliner on her lids.

“Yes?” She pulls herself into one of the island stools and peels a banana off of its bunch. “Aunt Peggy showed me. Why?”

Now it’s Alex’s turn to roll his eyes. “Ang, some lipgloss and a little bit of mascara is one thing. But you look twenty-four, not fourteen-”

“Did you already have breakfast?”

Alex blinks. “No. Why?”

Angie gestures with her banana at George’s plate, still sitting next to the sink, the cold, uneaten waffles on display. Alex freezes.

“Oh, that?” he says, voice shrill, grabbing the plate and scraping the waffles into the garbage can. His throat constricts. “No, after you and Will went to bed George was still a little hungry so he had waffles.” Alex shrugs. When he turns back around, both of Angie’s perfectly-shaped eyebrows are raised.

“He was hungry,” Alex repeats defensively, a little louder. “Now, go wash off whatever’s on your face and wake up your brother.”

 

—

 

With nearly an hour to spare before their meetup with Lafayette and Adrienne, a few stolen kisses on George’s couch takes a sharp turn. George, pants rolled down to his ankles; Alex’s stirpped off and discarded on the floor with one leg slung over George’s lap. It’s quick, the 6 o’clock news humming in the background the entire time — Alex keeps up the pace, one hand gripping the back of the couch and the other on George’s shoulder until he finishes, loose and pliable and on the sweet side of sensitive when George digs into his hips and fucks into him.

He lets George stay seated inside him once he’s done, foreheads pressed together as they both catch their breath. They stay like that a moment before George twists under him and lifts him off, helping him settle back into the couch.

Alex cleans himself up with a couple tissues after George disappears into the bathroom, turns off the TV and rearranges the throw pillows. He’s settling back into the couch when a text from Angie pops up on his lockscreen.

_hey dad i know you’re stuck working late but can you bring home rose macarons from that place by your office? craving them. love u_

“I think Angie might be suspicious,” Alex blurts out, still reading the text when George returns, dressed in a robe. The rest of the story spills out when George joins him on the couch — the plate by the sink, his cover story. George stays silent through all of it, infuriatingly thoughtful while Alex waits.

“Well. We haven’t done a great job of hiding it from everyone else, have we?”

“No,” Alex admits.

“We have two options. We jump ahead of this and tell her we’re seeing each other, let her know it’s still early. She’s old enough to understand. We’d risk her telling Will, though — that’s trickier.”

“I don’t know,” Alex groans, letting his head fall back onto the couch. “Having you stay the night was thoughtless — not that I don’t want you to, God, I’d want you to stay every night if you could — but Will still has night terrors, sometimes he comes down to my room in the middle of the night. Really, anything could’ve happened.”

George sits up a little straighter, a smile playing at his lips. “You want me to stay over every night?”

“Well, yeah,” Alex wrinkles his brow and frowns up at him. “If it were possible. Why wouldn’t I? Why are you so surprised?”

“No reason,” George shrugs. “I suppose it’s just nice to hear it.”

Alex feels his heartbeat accelerate, he quickly swallows down his nerves.

“Let’s wait,” he says, swiftly changing the subject. “Just no more overnight visits, OK? If I beg, you tell me no — hey, we could actually have some fun with that.”

George sighs, tired. “You had to, didn’t you?”

Alex launches himself off the couch, giving George a firm peck. “Come on, shower. Or we’ll be late.”

 

—

 

The ride to the restaurant is quiet. George keeps Alex’s hand in his on the drive over, a thumb absently running over his knuckles while he gives the cab driver directions.

“We’re going to Daniel,” George says once he sits back in his seat. Alex gives him a puzzled look. “It’s French? Adrienne and Gilbert always rave about it. I’ve had yet to go with them.”

“One of these jackets required places, right?” Alex asks, touching the lapel of the suit George picked out for him, the most formal option out of the selections he’d sent home with George earlier in the day. George himself is dressed in a sleek, dark gray suit and a solid black tie, and Alex knows he’s seen George in this ensemble before — he’s been awkwardly staring at him since they dressed — but doesn’t quite place it until they’re turning onto Broadway.

“Hey,” Alex says, scooting closer in the backseat until their knees knock together. “That’s the suit you were wearing on the day we met.”

George looks down at his chest, grins. “Oh. Look at that.”

Alex rolls his eyes fondly, squeezes George’s hand.

“We’ve come a long way since then,” Alex says. It’s incredible, he thinks, the way it feels like time has dragged on and on when not even a full two months have passed. He wonders, vaguely, if that’s a bad sign. If he should be more aware of how quickly they’ve moved. Care more.  

“What did you think?” George murmurs, quiet and low in his ear so the driver won’t hear him. “When you first saw me?”

“Hmm,” Alex purrs, grinning up at him. “‘Who’s that strange man talking to my son?’”

“Well,” George smiles, turning to look out the window as they pull up to the curb. “I suppose I walked right into that one.”

The restaurant is, of course, lovely. Golden lighting and rounded bistro tables with cream tablecloths and simple red rose centerpieces.The type of place he’s come accustomed to visiting over the last couple decades, though perhaps not for a weeknight date. Lafayette — or is it Gilbert now? — and Adrienne are already at a table tucked into a far corner of the dining room.

“George, Alexander,” she waves them over, standing to greet them. Alex takes in the tight knee-length black sequin dress, the deep V-shaped plunge that hits the small of her back. Most of the patrons seated at the surrounding tables look, too.

They both get a kiss on each cheek before Lafayette follows suit, almost grimacing when he pulls back from Alex. Alex gives him his best, tight-lipped smile.

“Well then,” Adrienne says, clapping her hands together and looking between Alex and George. “I have already ordered us the champagne! Gilbert and I are thrilled to be a part of your, ah, _début._ ”

“I am sure George and Alexander have already been on many dates, dear,” Lafayette says as they sit. He gives George a knowing smirk. “But you know Adrienne, George. There is always cause for a celebration.”

Adrienne orders for them in rapid French, pointing at Alex and then George as she reads off the menu, reassuring them, _“You will enjoy it, do not worry.”_ He’s never had much of a taste for foie gras, but by the time the waiter brings their plates to the table  he’s practically salivating just from the presentation alone.

“It is almost too beautiful to eat, no?” Adrienne asks proudly, pointing at Alex’s dish with her fork.

They make small talk about Alex’s job, his kids’ school, his brownstone in Park Slope, before the conversation inevitably circles back around to Adrienne, not unlike Thanksgiving. _“We do love our little home in Lenox Hill, we like being close to Martha. Though SoHo has caught our eye…”_

Alex does like her. There’s no doubt she’s a little vain, a little blind to reality, but her natural charm shines through. She gives Lafayette a playful, secretive smile before angling her body toward George.

“How is it for you, dating a writer?” She turns back to Alex, explains, “George is not — oh, how would you say it? A strong reader.”

“A big reader, Addie,” Lafayette corrects. “And do not make fun. They are still in their honeymoon stage.”

“I like to read!” George quickly jumps in, frazzled with embarrassment. “But I’m selective. And Alex is a journalist — I like to read the news.”

“We have known George for some time now. We tease,” Adrienne tells Alex, taking a long sip of her champagne, leaving behind a pink lipstick print. “He was in my book club for three months and would not finish the books.”

Alex raises his eyebrows at George, smiling. George shakes his head, a silent warning. “Is there anything else I should know about him?”

“Hmm,” Adrienne says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. She clicks her tongue and looks at Lafayette. “No, perhaps this story is not appropriate for dinner. The one about Friedrich?”

“No,” George and Lafayette respond immediately.

“Friedrich?” Alex asks, feigning innocence. George turns to shoot him a withering look. “I’d like to hear more about Friedrich.”

Adrienne chuckles and pats Lafayette’s arm where it rests on the table. Dives right into it without hesitation. “Friedrich worked at the DA’s office around the time George was hired and brought Gilbert along as his personal assistant. I only met him once or twice — a very handsome man. Tall. Taller than George, even. Anyway, George had a little crush on him that anyone with eyes could see. He would offer to do extra work, he’d run little errands for him.”

“That is true,” Lafayette offers dryly.

“But, Alexander, as I’m sure you know by now George does not often break rules, so he let it be.”

“We found out that George wasn’t quite his type,” Lafayette adds.

“Oh.” Alex glances back at George, trying not to laugh. “Everyone’s had a crush on a straight guy. It’s not a big deal.”

“He wasn’t straight,” George grumbles. “He made a pass at Gilbert.”

Alex raises an eyebrow.

“Gilbert had just turned twenty.”

Now Alex does laugh — a full-bodied cackle. Even George smiles, just a ghost of one. “You were too old for him! And he was-?”

“In his forties.”

“It would be an amusing story if it ended there,” Adrienne says, pouring more champagne into her emptied glass. George takes the bottle after her and fills Alex’s glass, then his own. “George and I, of course, urged Gilbert to complain. After human resources did an investigation, some romantic, ah, involvement with a small handful of interns came to light, and-”

“A little dark for dinner,” George cuts her off, smiling kindly. “I’m not sure why we had to share the story to begin with. Alex already knows he’s dating an old man.”

“You must have been in your...thirties?” Alex does the math in his head. “He’d think you’re decrepit now. Oh well. His loss.”

Adrienne lets them choose their own desserts, so George asks for a peach melba to split. Alex is certain he could eat one or two on his own, but the gesture reminds him so much of Eliza. How, too often, she’d ask to split dishes to save calories. George pushes most of the ice cream off to Alex’s side of the bowl, instead stabbing into one of the raspberry syrup-soaked peach slices.

“Alexander, tell us,” Adrienne says between dainty bites of her own dessert, pulling Alex out of his thoughts. “You are a parent. Georges is only a little younger than Angie. Is the age gap between her and your youngest any concern?”

“Not really?” Alex shrugs, pushing more ice cream back toward George. “When Will was born, it was actually pretty nice. Angie was still young but she could mostly entertain herself, you know? My wife and I got to focus on one baby rather than two.”

George cocks his head to one side. “Are you planning for a second?”

Adrienne smiles shyly and looks over at Lafayette. “Not sure. We would love to while we still can, though Georges is twelve now. I am not sure what it would be like, to have a baby in the house again.”

He feels George’s arm snake behind him and around the back of his chair, then a broad hand rub his shoulder. A quiet check-in. Under the table, Alex brushes his fingers across George’s knee. Let’s him know he can handle it. _Hopes_ he can handle it, even as his stomach twists and churns. It’s not as if he can go the rest of his life shying away and hiding from his own reality.     

“Philip was around eleven when Will was born,” Alex says evenly, carefully setting his spoon down. He gives Adrienne a wobbly smile. “They became best friends as Will got older. He idolized him. I think you’d be just fine if you had a second.”

Adrienne nods thoughtfully, but it’s Lafayette who locks eyes with Alex, seems to sense his discomfort. It does nothing but heighten the rush of anxiety he already feels. He doesn’t want to be stared at, doesn’t want Adrienne to ask any more questions, doesn’t want George to jump in and serve as some sort of gatekeeper of what they can and can’t discuss.  

“Now I have a question for you,” Alex butts in before Adrienne can speak again. “Angie came downstairs this morning wearing something comparable to a clown mask. Is fourteen too young for girls to wear makeup?”

“Well, where did she learn?” Adrienne asks. “Her friends?”

“Her aunt. Not Angelica. Peggy.”

“Ah. You should let her, if this is how she is bonding with your wife’s sisters. She needs women in her life.”

The shame stings Alex like a sharp slap to the face. He tries not to let it show with a rushed nod and fleeting smile. “Even if it makes her look older?”

Adrienne shrugs. “Let her express herself. If it really is too severe, perhaps have a chit-chat with Aunt Peggy, yes?”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. It comes out shaky, a little strained. And it’s such a stupid overreaction to something so small, he thinks, but he hates this — like after one area of his life is patched up, another starts ripping at the seams.    

So he places a hand on George’s shoulder and stands, tries not to be too abrupt. “I’m going to grab some fresh air.”

“Is everything all right?” Adrienne asks with a delicate tilt of her head.

In one quick movement, George pulls his napkin off his lap and places it on the table, starts to follow his lead. “I’ll come with you.”

“No need, finish our dessert — oh, and get us some rose macarons to go?” Alex asks, silently pleading with George to stay put. George slowly sinks back into his seat. He turns to Adrienne and Lafayette, smiles. “I’ll just be a minute.”

 

—

 

The December air is refreshing, not unlike a cold shower at the end of a steamy day. It’s quiet outside, for the most part, freeing without the sounds of overlapping dinner conversations and the tinkering of forks and knives. He doesn’t really have a plan. It would be tempting, he thinks, to text George an apology and just catch the train home. George would likely forgive him, at least this time. But he doesn’t know what George’s limit is. Doesn’t know when George’s efforts will outweigh the very few benefits of actually _being_ with him.

He’s losing track of time reading notifications on his phone when Lafayette steps out onto the sidewalk, looks around, spots him, and heads his direction. Alex tries his best not to visibly react and pockets his phone, braces himself.

“George sent me out to find you,” Lafayette explains, joining Alex where he’s leaning against the wall, away from the foot traffic. “He and my wife are fighting over the check.”

Alex cracks a smile at that. “Of course. I don’t think George has ever let me pay for anything. Or even leave a tip. It’s infuriating.”

“He is very generous like that,” Lafayette agrees. He pulls a little blue pack of Gauloises out of his back pocket, pops open the top and places one between his lips, offers a second to Alex. “You seem tense tonight.”

“Oh,” Alex says, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t smoke.”

Lafayette shrugs and puts the cigarette back in its box, lights the one between his lips. He gives Alex a little wink. “Well, neither do I. Do not tell George.”

“What’s he going to do?” Alex snorts. “He’s your boss, not your dad.”

He’s met with a pained look. “There was a healthcare initiative through HR a while back, there were pledges involved...you do not want the details.”

“Fair,” Alex shrugs. He chews on his bottom lip a moment and watches Lafayette exhale. He waves away a bit of the smoke. “I didn’t mean to worry everyone. This whole double dating thing, the kid talk, it’s kind of a lot to take in at once I guess.”

“Understandable,” Lafayette says. “I apologize for Adrienne. Sometimes she can get lost in her own world.”

“I want to do the things George would do with anyone else, you know? I want…” Alex trails off, he can’t say too much, not when it’s still unclear where he stands with Lafayette. “To be honest, double dating with you didn’t do anything to help my nerves tonight.”

“We did not get off on the right foot,” Lafayette agrees, unruffled, much to Alex’s relief. At least they’re on the same page. “But you understand George and I have known one another for half my life. I’ve seen men come and go. George has been hurt before. And when I heard about you…”

“So my situation makes me a liability?” Alex asks. “No offense, man, but George and I worked hard to get to this point. He decided to take a chance on me, and that’s his chance to take. I care about him, too. But he knows this isn’t easy.”

Lafayette takes another calm drag from his cigarette, looking out at the street instead of Alex. “He does feel for you deeply. I suppose I cannot be too surprised, he’s a humanitarian of sorts. A caretaker.”

 _Great, so now I’m a charity case._ Alex forces himself to push the thought away. It’s not like that. “Look. I think it’s great that George has someone like you. You clearly love him a lot.”

Lafayette turns back and gives him a funny, unreadable look. Nods. “I do.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen with us. But I have no intentions of hurting him. It’s hard enough for me to be his boyfriend without also having to worry about what his friends think of me, OK?”

Lafayette seems to soften at that, his bored demeanour replaced with something more like compassion. In that moment, something shifts between them.

“You are very lucky to have him,” he says, suddenly serious. “Know that.”

Alex frowns, but before he can get another word out, the double doors swing open. Lafayette curses in French under his breath and drops the butt of his cigarette, twists it into the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe.

“Alex!” George’s face lights up when he spots them. He leads Adrienne over to their spot by the wall. “I see Gilbert found you. Are you cold?”

“No.” He lets George wrap an arm around his back anyway, rubbing his hand up and down the length of his arm, like he’s trying to help his blood flow.

George sniffs the air. Then leans closer to Alex, smelling his hair. “You smell like an ashtray. Were you smoking?”

Adrienne hides a giggle in her hand. Alex tries not to look at Lafayette.

“No? I don’t know. Some waiter had his smoke break out here.”

“Gilbert,” George huffs. Alex mouths a silent ‘sorry.’ That earns him another wink.

They part ways with the Lafayettes in a flurry of quick cheek kisses and _bonne nuits_ and share the ride back to the Majestic in a peaceful silence. But the quiet lingers too long, to the point Alex is worried George has drifted off.

“I had a good time tonight,” he says, kicking George’s shoe. “Thanks for inviting me.”

George looks at him. Another long pause. “I’m glad. I couldn’t tell.”

“Well.” Alex shrugs. “It’s just a lot to get used to. Double dates...being part of a couple again.”

“We can always take it slower. Tonight was fun. But if it’s too much, I’m more than content keeping to ourselves.” He pauses, then adds, “as long as I’m with you.”

Alex chest tightens, he feels something in his stomach flutter. He repeats what he told Lafayette, not fifteen minutes earlier.

“I don’t want to be your boring, sad boyfriend who can’t handle dinner with your friends. I want to be someone you’re proud to be with.” Alex swallows nervously. It’s not to prove himself to Lafayette. It’s not for appearances. It’s for himself. For George. “I’ve given more thought to the Christmas party. I’d like to go.”

It’s worth it, for George’s smile alone. “You do? Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

George cups his jaw with one hand and drags him in for a kiss. “I’m always proud to be with you, you know. Regardless. Your strength, your perseverance in everything...it’s inspiring.”

Alex turns away and looks out the window, smiling privately. “OK. That’s enough of that.”

A hand falls on the back of his neck just as they pull up to George’s front entrance. Alex turns back to George, eyes drifting shut, shivering when thick fingers move up into his hair.

“I’m being serious,” George says, holding his gaze as soon as Alex’s eyes slip back open. Alex stares back, biding time while their driver fiddles with the meter. “Do you want to come upstairs?”

Alex shoulder’s slump. He did, all things considered, actually have a nice time. Unfortunately, it’s left him drained. “I’m not really in the mood, sorry. Just really tired? And I probably shouldn’t leave Angelica waiting with the kids too long…”

“No need to apologize,” George says quickly, dropping his hand away from Alex’s neck. He sets the little cardboard box of macarons in his lap. “I understand.”

Alex smiles, relieved, while George digs for his wallet, passes the driver a handful of bills. “Would you make sure he gets back to Park Slope safely? Thank you.”

George keeps their goodnight kiss brief, which is just as well, because Alex is certain their driver is watching them in the rearview mirror. For a split second, Alex regrets not following him up. But the relief he feels when he’s finally alone in the cab, headed for the bridge, the city lit up all around him, makes it worth it. He lets his head fall against the back seat. Takes a deep breath. Now, to make it through this Christmas party.    


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fair warning: This chapter alludes to a very minor character dating an adult while underage. 
> 
> a-schuyler.tumblr.com - we can chat there!

_ Harlem, December 1996 _

_ What do I care how much it may storm. I’ve got my love to keep me warm… _

“Ella Fitzgerald is the only singer who had business covering this song,” Eliza says matter-of-fact, turning up the volume on their boombox, perilously balanced on the windowsill. She sways her hips, hums a bit, then sings,  _ “What do I care if icicles form…” _

“This song is older than dirt.” Alex takes a step back to admire his work and immediately frowns. It’s more of a bush than a Christmas tree, reaching only his thigh. There are four ornaments on it, not including the snowman tree topper, and no lights or tinsel. 

“Maybe,” Eliza says from where she’s still swaying by the window. “You should let me do the Christmas decorations next year.”

“Yeah,” Alex mumbles. It’s stupid. He’s not naive enough to believe marrying Eliza would erase the years of his existence on the sidelines, yet somehow this shitty Christmas tree in their shitty apartment feels like a tangible representation of a childhood of Christmas dinners spent in soup kitchens. He knows Eliza doesn’t see it that way. She knows his story, but even with her social work degree, he doubts poverty is a concept she’ll ever fully grasp. 

Angelica jokes that, before Eliza moved to the city for school, she’d never seen a poor person. It’s funny in a way, but still unfair for his sister-in-law to pretend her experience was any different. But, of course, ignorance is bliss. 

“Don’t worry,” Eliza laughs, sneaking up behind him and wrapping her arms over his shoulders, around his neck. She kisses his cheek. “It’s still perfect.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go up to Albany?” he asks, uncertain.

“Yes,” Eliza says, spinning him around to face her. “Dad and Mom get us for New Year’s. Christmas is for us. It’s our first one together, Alexander. Don’t be silly.”

“Do you think we should break open the Christmas Ale early?” Alex asks, changing the subject. He takes the four steps it takes to get to their kitchen  — a fridge, stove and two counters shoved into the far corner of their studio. He pulls out two bottles, pries off the lids with the bottle opener on his keychain. “John recommended it, and you know what a fucking snob he is when it comes to beer.”

Eliza sniffs the rim of the bottle but doesn’t drink it. She gives Alex a funny smile. He’s certain he knows all her smiles, but this is one he’s never seen before.

“I don’t think I should be drinking.”

Alex laughs. “That’s not the Eliza Schuyler I know.”

“I’m pregnant.”

It’s a miracle, Alex thinks, that he doesn’t drop his own drink right onto their floor. He takes Eliza’s beer with shaking hands and sets both bottles on the edge of the coffee table, guiding her over to the couch. They sit.

“You’re  _ what? _ ” _   
_

“Pregnant.”

“I know, I know, but — how?”

“Well, sweetheart…”

“I’m being serious, Eliza,” Alex says, raising his voice as his panic builds. “I thought we were being safe.”

“The honeymoon,” Eliza reminds him. “After drinks at Salacia?”

“Holy shit.”

Eliza pulls her hands away. “This isn’t a bad thing. Why are you flipping out?”

Alex gestures around their apartment. “This place is literally 350 square feet, Eliza, we don’t even have a real bedroom. How are we supposed to have a  _ baby _ .”

“It’s not as if we planned to live here forever,” Eliza says, perfectly calm. She presses a palm against her stomach, still flat. “I’ve been looking…”

“OK, one thing at a time,” Alex says, wringing his hands, so hard it’s almost painful. “How long have you known?”

“A month or so,” Eliza shrugs. “I was going to tell you on Christmas Day but...I guess I got too excited.”

Alex looks away, guilty. “Have you told anyone else? Angelica?”

“No. Still a little too early for that.”

“Right.” He knows nothing — children, babies,  _ fatherhood _ — it’s a foreign concept. The mere thought of being responsible for another human’s happiness, their safety, their success...he feels weak, dizzy.

Eliza’s hand slips back into his. 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she promises, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “You married me, after all.”  
  


_ Present Day _

“Any fun plans for the weekend?” Burr’s voice floats over the cubicle wall.

Alex tugs the zipper closed on his laptop bag, pulls the strap across his chest and circles around to the other side of the office. 

“Yeah, actually. George and I have a Christmas party tonight in SoHo,” Alex says, leaning against the wall. Burr stops typing and looks up at him, puzzled. “I guess it’s with some people he used to work with or something.”

Burr spins his chair to face him. “So you’re George Washington’s arm candy now?”

“No? We’re dating.”

They stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed like deer caught in a pair of headlights. Finally, Burr blinks and, with a resigned sigh, spins his chair back toward his desk. “No one tells me anything.”

“I figured you knew,” Alex says, stifling a laugh and making himself comfortable in the chair next to Burr’s desk.

“How long?”

“A little over a week.”

“And before then?”

Alex’s cheeks grow warm. “Yeah. We were...involved.”

“Right,” Burr grins. “All that ‘off-site’ work you were doing.”

“Hey. I got all my shit done in time.”

“You did,” Burr agrees, still grinning a perfect, white smile. “God, what’s that even like?”

“What?”

“Dating Washington. I mean, I can’t even imagine what the dinner conversations are about. Property taxes and retirement plans…has he taken you golfing yet?”

“He doesn’t golf.” Alex pauses. “Fuck, at least I hope not. What have you heard?”

“Maybe it’s true, what they say? About opposites attracting.” Burr shuts his laptop, a soft click. He turns back to face Alex, his voice growing softer in an irritating way that warns Alex he’s about to get sentimental. “Joking aside, I’m happy for you, man. Seriously. You put yourself out there. That’s really brave.”

Alex moves to push himself out of the chair. “All right-”

“As someone who married a widow-”

“Oh, Christ.”

“-can I just offer a little advice? Something Theo and I learned together? It can be really hard for someone in Washington’s position to ask for things, especially really early in a relationship. I was always kind of afraid of inconveniencing or upsetting her. You’ve gotta check in with him, too. It’s a two-way street.”

Alex bites his tongue. If the rumors that made their way around the office a few years ago are true, he’s pretty positive Burr and his wife were involved long before her husband croaked. And, if the other rumors are true, she was already preparing her divorce papers. Maybe he’s a dick for thinking it, but he doubts Theodosia’s grieving period was all that lengthy. 

“Thanks,” he says slowly, sinking back into the chair. “But, honestly, George is good about that kind of stuff. The talking and the feelings. It was his idea to try the whole relationship thing. I’m not sure if I would’ve gotten there without him asking for it.”

“Washington and feelings.” Burr cracks a private smile at that. “Well, like I said. Happy for you. And, hey, now that you’re sleeping with one of my sources-”

Alex rolls his eyes and stands. Bantering with Burr crosses that kind-of-friends line he’s worked hard to keep intact. Still, he chuckles.

“Nice try,” he says, turning toward the door before Burr can see his smile. “You and the Theodosias have a nice weekend.”

—

One phone call to Angelica during his cab ride to the Majestic, and he’s set for the evening. Angie and Will will fall asleep in Angelica’s guest rooms tonight, assuming their father is upstate for an overnight assignment in Scarsdale. 

With a string of curse words, the cabbie slams on the breaks for a jaywalker and Alex’s knees hit the back of his seat, stomach lurching from the sudden stop. He doesn’t like this  — the lying. His only consolation is the knowledge — the hope — that they’ll be able to come clean sooner rather than later. They don’t have much of a choice. There can only be so many sleepovers and movie nights at Aunt Angelica’s before someone — likely Angie — starts asking questions. 

But, it’s a simple enough lie. A clean lie. They’re not hurting anyone. This isn’t a matter of putting George before his own children. He’s sparing their feelings and protecting his relationship until the time is right.

That’s all it is.

It’s silly, but his stomach still ties itself up in anxious, tight knots whenever they meet up. It’s a fear he can never quite shake, whenever he’s alone in the Majestic elevator. That none of this is real, that he’s been roped into some elaborate joke and his second chance at happiness is nothing but an illusion. Why would anyone want him? He turns the question over and over again in his mind, watching the white light illuminate each button in the elevator as he climbs to the top floor. Who would willingly look at his baggage, all the ways his life has been fucked with and destroyed, and think, ‘I choose  _ him. _ ’ 

“I thought we would have a drink before we go,” George says as a greeting, pulling Alex into the living room. He spots two crystal tumblers filled halfway with a rich amber liquid, sitting on coasters atop the coffee table. George hands one to Alex. “You’ll drink bourbon, won’t you?”

Alex takes a small sip, ignores the way it makes his nose sting. Bourbon will always be a bit too strong for him; he’ll likely never be able to sip it down as smoothly as George. 

“You look handsome,” Alex says, taking a step back to drink George in — the navy suit perfectly tailored to his body, the subtle oaky cologne in the air. He bites down on his lip and drags his eyes back up to George with a playful smirk. “And, good news. I’m all yours tonight.”

George smiles. “You’re staying?”

“Yeah,” Alex shrugs. “It’s Friday night. I want to spend it with you.”

In the bedroom, he changes into his own dark green suit while George painstakingly selects a tie. The color’s appropriate for a Christmas party, he thinks, though the fit hasn’t been ideal since he lost Eliza and Philip. Too loose and baggy. But now, looking at his reflection in the mirror on top of George’s dresser, he looks...good. Well-rested. A little more filled out and broad-chested. Happy. He stands up a little taller when George steps up behind him, studying his own reflection, smoothing out a scarlet tie. 

“You look very presidential,” Alex says, locking eyes with him in the mirror. “And look at us. Green and red. We’re going to crush this Christmas party.”

George snakes his arm around his waist and Alex leans comfortably against his chest, letting George hook his chin over his shoulder. In the mirror, he watches while George kisses up the column of his neck. 

“You’re so beautiful,” George breathes against his ear. Alex shivers, tries to keep his eyes from drifting shut. He knows where this leads. Still, the compliment sets his cheeks on fire.

“Stop,” Alex says, twisting to face George and grabbing his arm. “Or we’re not going to make it to your party.”

He considers that for a moment. Sees it in George’s eyes, too. It might not be so bad, to just stay in. Then his eyes land on his wedding band, a sharp contrast against the dark fabric of George’s suit. George’s eyes follow his, down to where Alex’s hand rests on his arm.

“Do you want me to take it off?” Alex asks, the question spilling out before he has time to think. “For the party, I mean.”

George frowns. “No. Why would I?”

“Won’t it be weird for you? To have all these people you know see your new boyfriend wearing a wedding band?” Alex pulls his hand back, twists the ring twice around his finger, up to the knuckle. George stops him, wrapping one strong hand tight around his wrist. 

“Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with for my sake,” George says. “Ever. I want you to wear your ring for as long as you like.”

It’s not the first time George has rendered him speechless and he doubts it’ll be the last. George loosens his grip and takes a small step closer, resting his hands over Alex’s shoulders.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, earnest. A promise. “And I certainly don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Alex sinks his teeth into his lip and nods, eyes falling down to his shoes. He doesn’t quite think that’s true, but it’s not worth discussing. Not something that’s worth fighting over. He manages a little smile when George presses a kiss to his forehead and catches him by the forearm before he pulls away. He flushes under George’s expectant stare, a thousand words at the tip of his tongue, but nothing he’s ready to put out into the world, to make a reality. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Alex shakes his head. He lets George go.  “I don’t know how I lucked out with you, I guess.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” George smoothes out his lapels in the mirror, smiling. His phone lights up and buzzes across the dresser. “That’ll be Martha. You ready?”

—

Martha is a vision in a crimson sheath dress, thick strands of pearls circling her neck, wrapped up in a gray fur shawl, her short hair in finger waves. Alex suddenly feels like he’s climbing into a cab with an Old Hollywood film star, a modern day Dorothy Dandridge. 

“Have you given Alex a Who’s Who, sweetheart?” she asks once they pile into the backseat of the cab, Alex crammed against George’s side to accommodate Martha. 

“Please,” George laughs, shifting to wrap an arm around Alex’s shoulders as they pull away from the curb. “Go right ahead.”

Alex nods attentively while Martha rattles off names, George helpfully providing context.  _ “You’ll spot Henry Knox a mile away-” “We were partners with Nate before I took the job with the DA’s office.” “-I swear, he puts on twenty pounds between every holiday party.” “Martha.” “Well, now they’re just Greene & Knox. Chopped George’s name right off the end. Nate and I were an item before he met his newest wife, Cathy, last year...” _

He’s certain he has a decent grip on a handful of the attendees by the time they pull up to Henry and Lucy Knox’s loft. It’s spacious and bright inside, with bleached hardwood floors and an interior brick accent wall. A real pine Christmas tree sits in the corner next to an electric fireplace, and Alex notes the five stockings pinned on the mantle. Three for the kids, likely grown by now, two for mom and dad. A big family. A string adaptation of  _ O Holy Night _ plays from a stereo system on one of the bookshelves, soft and pleasant under the voices of the mingling guests. 

Martha runs off, embracing a tall, dark-haired woman holding a martini glass with a candy cane stick poking out. Alex looks around the room at the sea of unfamiliar faces, swallows, and instinctively reaches for George’s hand. But George is already turning to cross the living room, guiding Alex through a small crowd gathered by the dining room table and over to a short, graying fat man. 

“Oh, George! You’re here!” Henry says, pulling George into a bear hug and clapping his back with a meaty hand. “It’s been too long. Lucy’s floating around somewhere, the kids may have retreated upstairs, you know them.”

“I’ll be on the lookout,” George smiles, turning to Alex and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Henry, this is Alexander.”

Henry looks up at him with a grin, sticking out his hand for a handshake. The first thing Alex notices is how sweaty his palm is. He tries to discreetly run his own hand down the leg of his pants as soon as they part. 

“Make yourself at home, Alexander,” Henry says. “There are gingerbread and sugar cookies in the kitchen. And plenty to drink.”

“Lucy makes a wonderful eggnog,” George says. “You’ll have to try it.”

“I don’t really drink eggnog,” Alex shrugs. George cocks his head to one side, eyebrows raised. “The raw egg kind of freaks me out.”

“Really?”

“Ah,” Henry hums. “You always learn so much about each other around the holidays. Who’s the better gift-giver. Who snaps under stress. But don’t fret. There are plenty of cocktails and ciders. Beers and wines, too, if that’s more to your taste.”

Alex gives him a tight smile before George whisks him away to meet more guests. It’s a blur of handshakes and answering the same questions over and over again. _“How did you two meet?”_ _“How long have you known George?”_ _“What do you do for work, Alex?”_

Together, they answer the questions, Alex steadily losing patience with each person he meets. It doesn’t help that George, already on his third beer, doesn’t seem to pick up on his frustration, choosing instead to pull him into a conversation with Nate Greene, Dolley Madison — one of Nate and Henry’s independent contractors — and her husband, James.

Nate is handsome in a sort of generic way, but it’s Dolley who catches his eye. Tall and curvy with hair in springy, tight curls, she reads as a little too vibrant in comparison to quiet husband who, Alex notices, doesn’t bother to meet his eye or even smile when they exchange handshakes. It doesn’t phase him — one less person to try and impress. 

“We’re spending Christmas in Greensboro with my parents this year,” Dolley tells them with a roll of her eyes. “I can almost guarantee it’ll be a nightmare. They’re always nagging us to visit more...but that’s enough of that. Do you two have any holiday plans? Your first Christmas together…”

Alex tries not to visibly flinch. Instead, he looks at George and shrugs. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

“We did talk about getting out of the city for a few days before Christmas. Remember?” George says, gently touching the small of his back. “But, you’re right. We haven’t figured anything out for Christmas Day.”

Alex smiles. He hopes it’s serene. Effortless and unchallenging. “I’m going to grab a drink. Do you need another?”

“No, I’ve had enough, thank you,” George says, gesturing with his bottle. He leans in and Alex offers his cheek before slipping away to the drinks table. 

He breathes out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding and looks at his options. Skinny cans of ginger beer. A few six packs of pumpkin cider. A slow cooker full of mulled wine. He needs something stronger, so he grabs one of the bottles of lemon tea Belvedere and dumps the last of it in his glass. Almost tops it off with a bit of Sprite, but decides to down it straight, instead. Perhaps a bad idea, considering he hasn’t had a bite to eat all evening. But he swallows it down and rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

This is fine. A couple more hours and then he and George can go back to the Majestic. He’d wanted to start the night out strong, but he should’ve listened to the sinking feeling in his gut. The dread and guilt from lying to his own children. He should’ve canceled. George would’ve understood. He’d given him so many opportunities to say no already. He would’ve understood. He always does.  

But this is fine, he repeats to himself, turning back to the table. He’ll get a little drunk, flit around the room with his boyfriend, charm all his friends and fall asleep on George’s shoulder during the cab ride home, the night gone and forgotten. 

He’s unscrewing the cap off a fresh bottle of Belvedere when he catches a young kid on the other side of the table, all big blue eyes and sandy brown hair, staring at someone across the room. Alex cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, following the boy’s gaze. He lands on George, still chatting with Dolley and a very weary James Madison. He looks back at the boy, watches him sink his teeth into his lower lip. Alex almost laughs. Not subtle at all.    

“Slow down, kid,” Alex smirks, pouring himself another glass. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

The boy eyes him and snorts delicately, picking up one of the ginger beers.      

“And that can’t be part of the appeal?” he asks while reading the label, lifting a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Alex detects just a trace of an accent. 

Alex looks at him a little closer now, eyes narrowing. He’s not about to get into it with some guy he’s certain George wouldn’t look twice at. It’s not worth the energy, nothing to get jealous over. 

“Well. He’s also taken.”

“And so am I.” The boy cracks open his can and takes a sip, nodding toward the opposite side of the room. But his eyes stay on George. “Doesn’t mean I can’t look.” 

He scans the room for a few seconds before he realizes, with a mix of horror and amusement, the boy is referring to one of the men chatting with a very spooked Henry Knox; a bit taller and broader than George, salt-and-pepper hair, perhaps older than George, too, but not by much. A bit of a beer belly and a hooked nose, but, objectively, handsome. Alex tears his eyes away.

“Isn’t he a bit old for you?”

“I’m 19, a legal adult, so no,” he says, smirking right back at Alex. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Alex,” Alex says, raising his glass in lieu of a handshake. “Nineteen. God.  _ I’m _ old enough to be-”

He pushes that thought aside, studying Peter’s companion instead. Tall, handsome, a clear taste in younger men. A light bulb goes off in his head. He nearly laughs.

“So, Peter, how long have you and-?”

“Friedrich.” Bingo.

“-been together?”

“Oh, a couple years now,” Peter says. Alex chooses not to question that. Not his place. “It’s a bit difficult, now that I’m out in New Haven for school. But we’re making it work. What about you and…?”

“George. Almost two weeks? We’ve known each other for a while, though.” He pauses, but decides not to point out Friedrich and George’s history to Peter. It’s a shame, though, because this is by far the most interesting conversation he’s had all night. 

“Good luck to the both of you. I should go,” Peter says, locking eyes with Friedrich across the room. He gives Alex a little wink. “But if you ever feel like sharing…”

Peter darts away with a brief wag of his fingers, leaving Alex alone at the booze table. He looks over at George, wants to know if he witnessed any of their exchange. It would give them something to laugh about later. But George’s back is facing him now; he’s still engrossed in conversation with a new set of guests Alex doesn’t recognize. He pours himself another glass, throws in a splash of Sprite this time. 

“How are you feeling, honey?” Martha asks, sneaking up to him from the side and bumping him with her hip.

“Invisible,” Alex answers, bitter, and surprised at how quickly the word flies off his tongue. “I shouldn’t have come. These are your friends. And George’s.”

“Oh, Alex,” Martha frowns, touching his arm now. “They’re your friends now, too.”

“You know, I thought the most awkward part of this would be wearing my fucking wedding band,” Alex laughs, sipping up the last of the vodka in his glass. He’s starting to feel warm and fluid, like he’s skipped the buzz and gone straight to drunk. “But it’s not. It’s the hobnobbing. It’s everyone trying to one-up each other with their Christmas getaways. I buried my wife and son in  _ February. _ ”

On the stereo, he hears a loud swell of trumpets, the upbeat opening chords to a familiar tune. A smooth voice.  _ The snow is snowing and the wind is blowing, but I can weather the storm... _

Martha plucks the glass out of Alex’s hand, suddenly serious. “Let me get George.”

She elbows her way through the crowd, watches her grab George’s elbow and tug him away from his group. Ella Fitzgerald continues to croon over the speakers, unnoticed by everyone else.  _ I cannot remember the worst December… _

Alex watches, detached, like it’s a scene from a movie, while Martha speaks to George in angry, harsh whispers. She points and George finally looks his way. 

Crushed. That’s the only way Alex can describe what he sees, and it’s what anchors him. Helps him break through the fuzzy fog from the vodka and collect himself. 

George nods and says something to Martha, his hand slipping off her shoulder. In a matter of seconds, he’s standing in front of Alex, shielding him from the rest of the guests. Alex blinks, surprised, when he feels George’s fingertips brush across his cheek.

“Alex. Why are you crying?”

“I’m ready to go,” Alex says, shouldering past him and toward the door.

—

He doesn’t stop once he’s outside. He doesn’t stop to check if George is following, either, just crosses his arms over his chest to keep warm and walks aimlessly down the sidewalk. 

There are a few cabs on the street. He could hail one on the corner. But before he can stick an arm out, George has him by the shoulder, spinning him around.

“Alex,” he pleads, desperate, flustered. Alex presses his palm flat against his chest, pushes him away. 

“What makes you think we would have plans for Christmas Day?”

“What?”

“Dolley Madison. You told her we didn’t have plans for Christmas Day. I need to spend Christmas with my kids and my sisters-in-law, George, fuck.”

“I’m not an idiot, Alex,” George says, strikingly calm. “I didn’t say a word about us actually  _ making _ plans. Is that what you’re upset about?”

“It was too much,” Alex says, trying not to fixate on the way George’s eyes are glistening in the streetlights. “I couldn’t do it. All you wanted to do was parade me around for your friends. You never stopped to think-”

“I asked you, over and over, if you wanted to come with me tonight,” George reminds him, raising his voice. And Alex already knows this, has thought about it for most of the fucking night. “You made it sound like this was what you wanted. To go out and be a normal couple together. I told you, Alex. I told you we don’t have to jump headfirst into this. I can wait for you.”

“I thought it was what I wanted,” Alex says. “But once we were here...you should’ve known.”

George blinks. He laughs, unfriendly. It’s not fair. Alex knows it. “I can’t read your mind. You have to tell me.”

“I don’t have this all figured out, George! I wish I did!” Alex yells. He knows it’s a cop out, a way to redirect the blame. He also knows he should feel more guilty than he does. George takes a step back, giving him space. 

A heavy silence sits between them for a moment. George stares down at the pavement, still as a statue. Alex zips up his jacket and shoves his hands in his pockets, tries not to shiver.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” George admits when he looks up again, voice choked, raspy. “I’m trying to figure this out, too. It doesn’t help when you lash out at me like this. If you expect me to stand by you and understand when you make a mistake, I need you to do the same for me. Otherwise, I don’t see this working.”

Alex freezes. He feels the vodka rise in his throat, his eyes sting. “Are we breaking up?”

“No,” George says, eyebrows shooting up. “No, of course not. Not unless that’s what you want.”

“No,” Alex says immediately, lowering his defenses. No one wins this battle. He never expected George to be his knight in shining armor — he’s never wanted him to be, not really. “I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

He can still detect a hint of sadness lingering in the air between them, a ghost of unresolved tension. He wants to cry, but not here.

“I think I’m going to go home,” Alex decides, stepping off of the edge of the sidewalk to search for a cab. “But you should go back in. Enjoy your party.”

“Alex,” George says, a warning in his voice. He pulls Alex back onto the sidewalk. “You’re drunk and upset. I’m not going to force you, but it would make me feel better if you slept over tonight. Or, at least let me help you get home.”

Alex looks up at him and studies his face. Each line and crevice, the dark circles, the slightest hint of stubble that only he can see, this close. He sees, now, that his eyelashes are wet. Alex’s chest tightens.

“OK. Let’s go back to your place.”

—

In an ideal world, he would’ve ended this night draped over George’s chest, exhausted and content and warm, together, in a postcoital haze. He almost doesn’t want to waste the evening — nights alone are hard to come by, after all, and he’s certain he could still psych himself up. He still has a buzz going, and makeup sex has always had a special place in his heart. But George seems uninterested, barely touches him on the ride back to the Majestic. So Alex doesn’t push.

He showers alone. The hot water refreshes him, helps him clear his head. By the time he shuts off the shower and towel dries his hair, brushes his teeth, he feels mostly sober. Back in control. But when he walks into the bedroom, George is gone. No trace of him aside from a glass of ice water sitting on the bedside table, on Alex’s side, and his navy suit hanging up in the open closet.

“George?” Alex calls out, wandering out into the living room. He almost laughs when he finds George in his boxer briefs, setting up the sofa bed.

“I thought you might like the bed to yourself tonight,” George explains, a little sheepish, struggling to pull the fitted sheet over the corner of the spongy mattress. 

“You’re not sleeping on the couch.” In all his years of marriage, Alex slept on the sofa in his office a total of three nights. One happened to be a summer night when Eliza, eight months pregnant with Angie, claimed to be too grouchy and hot to share a bed. The other two nights were worse — Philip was nearly two, and his nanny had just turned 23. She’d complained rather openly — her husband’s chronic forgetfulness, the likelihood she’d spend her birthday alone at the dollar theater with a bag of popcorn instead of a steak dinner. 

So Alex took Maria out. Dinner and drinks at a little Ethiopian restaurant she’d been dying to try. He didn’t tell Eliza, didn’t seem worth the trouble, but she found out while sorting through their bank statements the month after. The fallout had been brutal, one of the worst fights of their marriage.  

But he learned something on that third night, when Eliza let him back into their bed. He relearned it every night and every following morning, too. Those few, foggy moments in the mornings, before the realities and the stresses of the day settled in, before all the arguments replayed in his mind and the sourness and resentment started to build — those moments were important. It was in those moments he could look at his wife’s face, always peaceful in her sleep, and remember why loving someone was worth the heartache. 

“Come to bed,” Alex insists. And George follows.

Alex sheds his towel and climbs under the duvet. He lets George keep some space between them, turned on his side, facing away from Alex. He drifts in and out of a light sleep, waking up once during the night to use the bathroom and a second time to drink the glass of water forgotten on his nightstand. The second time he climbs back in bed, George rolls over to face him.

“Sorry,” Alex says, smiling when George rests his head next to his on the pillow. “I was trying not to wake you up.”

George shrugs. “I’m having trouble sleeping, anyway.”

“Did you know,” Alex mutters, his own eyes drifting shut. “That your old flame Friedrich was at the party tonight.”

He hears George snort into the pillowcase. “My ‘old flame.’ Right. But yes, I did see him. We didn’t talk, though. Nate said he wasn’t invited.”

“Ah,” Alex says. He kicks George under their blanket. “Well, I met his 19-year-old boyfriend. I think you got invited to a threesome? Anyway, I’d feel bad if I didn’t pass along the memo.”

“For Christ’s sake,” George snaps, almost angry. But then he’s laughing, full-bodied with the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes, and then Alex is laughing with him. At Peter, at Friedrich, the absurdity of the entire night, at how much has changed in the span of a year. 

He laughs until he cries, long after George has settled down. But the pillow is already wet from his hair, so it doesn’t make much of a difference. He pushes his face into George’s chest and stays there for the rest of the night. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a-schuyler.tumblr.com, we can chat there!

“Do you often keep your apartment at subzero temperatures, in the middle of December, to lure innocent men into your bed?” Alex asks once they’re done, George draped over him, loose and limp.

His thighs are still trembling and he feels a bit like melted butter spilled over George's bedclothes. George, hidden under the duvet between his legs only minutes ago, doesn’t look much better — his eyes wild and his lips and chin slick from saliva.  Alex feels teeth graze his shoulder, shivers a little and turns his head to press a kiss to George’s cheek.

With a sigh, George rolls off of him, dragging the sheet, pulling it up over his hips. Alex follows him across the bed, tucking himself into his side.

“It’s not that cold,” George objects, pulling up the duvet and cocooning it around them anyway. “Stop trying to blame me.”

“We didn’t even eat lunch,” Alex whines dramatically. “That was the whole reason we came back to your place. That was the _plan.”_

“Are you the same Alex Hamilton who once begged to give me a blowjob in my own office?”

“Those were desperate times,” Alex says, matter-of-fact.

George snorts and presses his nose into the top of Alex’s hair, running a broad palm up and down his back, pulling him closer. They’ve been good, since the party. Happy. Open. Perhaps better than they’ve ever been. In some ways, he thinks, fighting has made them stronger. Solid.

But it’s also forced him to come face-to-face with the reality that Christmas is next week.

And he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

“You know,” George says, fingers absently tangling in Alex’s hair and tugging, almost playful. “I don't have any appointments booked for the afternoon. I don't want to keep you from work, but-”

“I don't really have time to stay in bed all day and screw around,” Alex interrupts. There's no heat behind it, but he nudges George’s shin under the blankets with his big toe anyway. George’s hand loosens in his hair and he pulls back slightly to look at him.

“Are you all right?” George asks. It takes everything in Alex not to laugh at the suggestion, that something must be up if he _doesn’t_ want to blow off work for fucking. “You just seem quiet.”

“Sorry,” Alex apologizes, immediately embarrassed George has noticed. Apparently enough to question him. He tries to snuggle back in against him, closer.

But George puts a hand on his shoulder and keeps him at arm’s length, gives him a funny look. And Alex knows he’ll have to elaborate.

“Do you ever think about how weird all of this is?” he asks carefully. “That a few years ago you were spending Christmases with some other guy you were in love with and I was with my wife?”

George’s expression doesn’t shift, much to Alex’s relief. He’d be lying to himself — lying to George, too — if he tried to pretend this was fine. Like he could simply breeze through his first Christmas without his wife and son. There’s a part of him that wants to do everything with George — from wrapping the kids’ presents to cooking Christmas dinner together. But there’s another part of him, the guilty part, that feels like it would be a disservice to his family.

“You know I’m not going to take any of this personally,” George says. “My first Christmas without Benedict wasn’t easy, even though I didn’t want him anymore. I can’t imagine…”

Alex closes his eyes as George trails off, letting his words linger. He feels George start to pull back and immediately grabs hold of him again.

“It’s not you,” he promises. “I don’t want you to think any of this is about you or some sort of reflection of how I feel about us. But I never liked the holidays. I never had a family to spend them with while I was growing up, and Eliza always made them better, you know? And now it’s like...history repeating itself.”

“Alex,” George says, bewildered, propping himself up on one elbow. “You have two children who adore you. You have your sisters. You aren’t lacking people who love you and care about you.”

“I know that. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

George looks like he wants to say more, but settles back into the mattress instead, staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Alex’s hand anxiously fists in the sheets.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” he says, voice strained. George rolls his head to look at him, brow furrowed with concern. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want this to become a thing with them. “But I’ve hardly done anything to get ready for Christmas and I’m trying not to have a repeat of that party. I want to be a little better with this whole feelings thing.”

“I know,” George says, eyes softening. He reaches out to touch the side of Alex’s face, just along the angle of his cheekbone. It sends a flood of warmth through Alex’s body, reminds him so much of the Thanksgiving evening he stood in George’s kitchen and laid his cards on the table. “I know this is minimizing everything, but I wish I knew how to make things OK for you.”

And that’s what does it. Alex inhales sharply through his nose and tries to turn away before the tears spill, but he already feels them drenching his cheeks. George doesn’t say a word, just politely turns to look back up at the ceiling, his hand finding Alex’s on top of the duvet.

“What I said the other week. About needing to spend Christmas with my family?” Alex wipes his face with the heel of his hand. “I thought about it a little more. I want you to join us, but just as a guest. I don’t want to exclude you but I also just want to keep things simple. Does that make sense?”

George smiles a little at that. “I’ve already made plans to spend Christmas Day with Adrienne and Gilbert.”

“George,” Alex scolds gently, searching his face for any signs of discontent. “What can I do to change your mind?”

“I think you originally had the right idea,” George shrugs one shoulder. “You should spend it with your family. I usually spend it with the Lafayettes, anyway.”

“All right,” Alex says, a little hesitant. “If you’re sure.”

“But what can I help with?” George asks, rolling onto his stomach. “You shouldn’t have to prepare everything by yourself.”

“I gave Angelica a gift list for the kids. She’s way better at shopping,” Alex says, counting off each item on his hand. “I bought the fake Christmas tree because there’s no way in hell I’m bothering with a real one this year. I’m not writing any Christmas cards.”

He racks his brain, certain he’s forgetting something.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I guess the only thing left to really do is decorate the tree.”

“Is that something you usually do with the kids?”

“They couldn’t care less about decorating the tree,” Alex laughs. “That was always a me and Eliza thing.”

He pauses. Thinks of all the memories packed away in cardboard boxes and plastic tubs, sitting in his basement. He tries to picture picking through them alone. He can’t imagine it.

“Do you want to help?” he blurts out.

George is silent for a beat, teeth chewing into his bottom lip. Alex feels his heart sink, braces himself for rejection.

“I don’t want it to be too much,” George says. “After last week…”

“I know about last week,” Alex says, touching George’s arm. “But we learned from that, right? We can do better. And honestly, I don’t know if I can really go through our things by myself.”

“All right,” George says slowly, lips twitching up into a half-smile. “When do you want to do this?”

“Tonight? I kind of want to get it wrapped up before Ang takes the kids to Disney.”

“Tonight, then.”

“Come here,” Alex smiles, grabbing hold of George’s wrist and pulling him down for a quick peck. “You’re so good to me, you know that?”

“You deserve it.” He turns Alex’s hand to look at his watch and sighs. “We should probably get back to work. Text me what time you want me over.”

 

—

 

“Did you actually want my help, or did you just want someone to do the manual labor?” George asks, dropping the last of the plastic tubs on the living room floor with a huff, wiping his palms down the front of his pant legs.

“Obviously I wanted someone who was going to look good doing it, too,” Alex points out, straightening out the last of the tree branches. He takes a step back to look at the tree. A little shorter than he imagined. Definitely fake and tacky. But passable.

“It’ll look better once we dress it up,” George says, overly upbeat to the point he sounds unsure. He starts peeling off the lid to one of the bins. “Did you two do a theme, or…?”

“It was kind of a mish-mash,” Alex shrugs, dragging one of the other bins over to the couch, sitting down to open it. “We’d pick up random things during the year and just kind of go with it? This was kind of one of those things in her life that wasn’t perfectly curated, you know? That’s what made it so fun.”

The lid comes off with a pop and he takes out the wreath for the front door, sets it aside, and starts pulling out the garland for the staircase. George pulls out a rope of fairy lights from where he’s standing over his own box.

“Is this for the tree?” George asks, stretching out the lights and frowning at them.

“Those lights are for the porch.” Alex points at the strands dangling from the rope. “They come down like icicles? Come on, don’t you decorate at the Majestic?”

“Not really,” George says, carefully rolling the lights back up. “I never really hosted Christmas. It just seemed a little pointless without a family to enjoy the decorations.”

“Not even with your ex?”

George shrugs. “No. If we weren’t at the Lafayette’s, we were out of town.”

“Well, those definitely don’t go on the tree. And you can put them back in the box, anyway. I’m not going to worry about the front of the house this year,” Alex says, a little gentler. Twenty years of marriage never made him immune to the memory of what it feels like to watch the holidays pass by, to feel so incredibly alone. Even with the entire Schuyler family, the winters spent upstate in Albany, his beautiful wife and children at his side — none of it ever erased the memories of his own forgotten family.

“Are you sure?” George asks, looking down at the lights in his hands. “They would look nice.”

“Next year we can go all out,” Alex promises, letting the implication hang in the air between them, as frightening as it is. _‘George isn’t the type,’_ Martha had told him that day at the cafe when he explained every fear, every reservation he had about letting George into his life, the fear that he could leave them at any moment.

And yet he regrets the words almost as soon as he says them. Between them, it’s mostly unspoken — an easy understanding that they’ll stay together indefinitely, that they’re both in this for the long haul. But actually putting it into words makes it real. A commitment.

“George, I-”

“Next year we could put some of the garland on the railing outside the door,” George says thoughtfully, eyeing the garland stretched out across the couch. He drops the fairy lights back into the box and picks up the wreath instead, adjusts the red bow. “Maybe a wreath and candle in each window.”

“All right, Mr. I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Decorate.”

“I said I don’t decorate, not that I don’t know how,” George says, defensive. “I’ve been in houses. I’ve seen what people do.”

Alex rolls his eyes, fond, and opens the smaller box full of Christmas ornaments, a random assortment of basic red, green and gold shimmery globes, a few snowmen with scarves wrapped around their necks, Mickey and Minnie Mouse wearing Santa hats. He pulls out one ornament, a small, framed family portrait, looks at it a little closer. They’re all in front of the Christmas tree and Eliza has Will propped up on her hip — Philip and Angie are mid-laugh, paying no attention to the camera, and Alex can tell by the pained expression on his own face he’s holding back one of his own.

“That’s a lovely photo,” George says, looking over Alex’s shoulder as he hangs it on one of the branches. “When was it taken?”

“Will looks about one?” Alex shrugs, holding the frame steady. “So awhile ago. And look, you can tell — my hair’s short.”

“Hmm,” George hums, smiling. He turns and presses a kiss against Alex’s temple. “You know I like it better long.”

They decorate in silence, and Alex is thankful George isn’t overly chatty. It gives him time to process, time to carefully examine each ornament and attempt to remember the stories behind them; the three owls the Schuyler family made shortly after Peggy’s birth, with each Schuyler sister’s engraved name. His mother-in-law’s favorite ornament, a beautiful blue-crystal snowflake they’d brought home after her funeral. After the ornaments are hung, Alex wraps a strand of colored lights around the tree, George tops it with Eliza’s reindeer tree-topper, and they’re done.

“It looks nice,” Alex says after they take a step back, his heart fluttering in his chest, unsure of how he should feel in this moment. He turns and looks at George, tries to ground himself. “Really nice. Thank you. Do you want to open up a bottle of wine for us?”

George nods and disappears into the kitchen, giving Alex a chance to find his bearings. He tries not to think too much of Eliza, standing at his side and giving her final approval of the decor. Instead, he repeats the little cliché mantra he still hates. _She would’ve wanted you to be happy._

She would, he thinks, grabbing one of the plastic bins and stacking it on top of an empty one. She would have liked George — found him charming and responsible and caring, all those things she looked for and valued in others. If she wanted anyone to take her place in his life, in their children’s lives, it would be George — without a second thought.

He catches a glimpse of bright cloth under some old blue and gold wrapping paper at the bottom of one of the bins, pushes the paper aside and finds their set of green and red argyle Christmas stockings, haphazardly thrown in after last year’s rushed post-holiday cleaning. He knows what’s coming as soon as he pulls out his own — _Dad_ stitched in neat cursive at the top, followed by Angie’s. He lines them up carefully on the coffee table. _Dad, Angelica, Philip, Mom, William._

A hand grazing the small of his back pulls him of his daze. George looks at the stockings and then back at him, handing him his glass of red wine.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” Alex says, still staring down at the stockings, even as he leans into George’s touch. “I shouldn’t have put up all the decorations this year. There’s nothing to celebrate.”

“I know it must feel like that,” George says. “But don’t you want to give Angie and Will a good Christmas?”

Alex nods silently. That much is true. After the year they’ve had, it’s the least he can do. He turns to look up at George. “What should I do with them?”

George eyes the stockings, thoughtful. “You could hang them up, still. In memory,” he suggests. Alex chest tightens. “If you want.”

“Ang might like that. But I think it would confuse Will. I don’t want to upset them.”

It’s a little embarrassing, he thinks as he collects Eliza’s and Philip’s stockings, carefully folding them and tucking them back in the storage bin, that he can’t find anything better to do with them. Next year, maybe. He’s thought about that a lot, lately. _There’s always next year._ In some ways it’s an improvement — until recently, he was having a hard time picturing a next year.

George helps him hang the remaining three stockings over the fireplace — centered, so the missing two aren’t so obvious. He grabs his wine off the mantle and downs the rest of it in two gulps. George raises an eyebrow and takes the empty glass from him.

“How long before Angelica and the kids get home from dinner?” he asks.

Alex shrugs. “I think they sat down around 5 so anytime now.”

“OK,” George says, nervously running his finger along the rim of his own wine glass. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“All right?”

“I booked us three nights in a cabin up in Stowe,” George says quickly. “A while back, when we first talked about going away together? It’s over the time the kids and Angelica are in Orlando so we wouldn’t be missed.”

“Stowe?” Alex repeats, not bothering to disguise his shock. “Vermont? _Skiing?_ ”

“I can always cancel the reservation,” George offers. “I was waiting for the right time to surprise you, but I understand things change...I just thought it might be nice to get out for a few days.”

At this point, people have emailed him so many stupid blogs and articles about loss. _Try something new,_ they all say.  _Don’t feel obligated to stick to tradition!_ He wonders, now, if those articles actually have a point. He can’t exactly think of a reason not to go, and being out of the city, away from it all...it couldn’t hurt.

“We should go,” Alex says before he can change his mind. He sees the relief pass over George’s face. “I mean, I’d be spending that time with you, anyway.”

George nods. “It’s tucked away in the mountains, beautiful views, full kitchen, a giant outdoor hot tub, a fireplace, a California king…”

“You don’t have to sell it to me,” Alex laughs. He pauses, stomach sinking a little. “What about reception? If there were an emergency and Angelica needed to call?”

“Already checked,” George reassures him. “We’ll be fine. The cabin has a landline, too.”

“Great. Yes. We should go.”

George responds with a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, taking several steps back just as the front door swings open and Will rushes in, kicking off his boots and throwing his coat on the floor, followed by Angie and Angelica.

“Dad, it looks like Christmas!” Will says excitedly, running up to the tree. Alex grabs his shoulder before he tugs on one of the branches.

“I know, kiddo. Geor- Mr. Washington helped.”

He looks at George and gives him a little shrug, just as Will catapults himself into George’s arms for a hug. No way of talking around it, really.

Angie looks at the opened bottle of wine on the kitchen island, back at Alex with a smirk. “It looks like you two were having fun.”

Alex pretends not to hear.

“Did they behave?” he asks Angelica instead.

“They were angels. I think we finally have our Disney to-do list set in stone,” Angelica says, hanging up her own coat on the rack by the door, picking up Will’s. She holds up a little brown bag. “Walnut sticky bun from Levain. You two will have to split it. Sorry George, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

George waves his hand and Angelica glances back at Angie and Will, now fighting loudly over the television remote. She tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Can I talk to you two real quick?”

Alex exchanges a panicked look with George and follows Angelica to the other side of the room. They gather around the kitchen island like it’s some sort of board meeting. Angelica helps herself to what’s left of the red wine.

“Alex, did you forget about that _Sound of Music_ thing Eliza and Angie had tickets to? The benefit concert? Carnegie Hall?”

Alex suddenly feels like he’s two feet tall. Right. So that’s what he forgot. Of course. “Fuck. When is it?”

“It’s tomorrow night.” Angelica sighs and swirls her wine in her glass. “She brought it up to me at dinner but I can’t go. I have piles and piles of editing for that special section.”

“Why didn’t she say anything to me?” Alex thinks out loud.

“She was probably afraid of your reaction,” Angelica offers gently. Alex feels his face burn with shame. “What do you think? Can you take her? She was really looking forward to it, and you know it was Eliza’s favorite show. I think it’s important.”

“I mean, I don’t…” Alex crosses his arms tight over his chest, tries to picture himself dressed up in Carnegie Hall, holding back tears, having to excuse himself, embarrassing his daughter.

“I could take her,” George offers, shrugging when both Alex and Angelica turn to stare at him. “I’m free tomorrow. I like _The Sound of Music_. If Alex is OK with it, and Angie…”

Alex nods. He’s self-aware enough to know it’s not a great idea. He’d be a sad excuse for a date; there’s no way he’d be able to psych himself up for it. He doubts Angelica would be able to, either, but at least she has work as an excuse.

“If you’re going to tell the kids about…” Angelica wags her finger between the two of them. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. Some one-on-one time.”

George looks at Alex. Alex nods again.

“Yeah. Let’s go ask her.”

 

—

 

Angie resists all of Alex’s attempts to help her get ready for the evening, so he camps out in the living room on the couch, a paperback in one hand and his phone next to him on the cushion, lighting up every so often with updates from George.

It would’ve made a hell of a lot more sense for Alex to just bring her into the city, but George had been adamant about picking her up himself; keeping things simple for Alex and treating Angie to a town car. It’s a bit over the top and, any other night, Alex would’ve objected to all the additional fuss and frills. But there’s something endearing about it all — George putting in this extra effort for his daughter, to make this night special.

His jaw nearly drops when she finally comes down the stairs, dressed in a floor-length midnight blue dress, capped sleeves, an elegant (and thankfully modest) boat neckline, lace overlay. Her dark hair is pulled into an updo, pearl studs in her ears and, in her hands, a silver clutch he immediately recognizes as his wife’s, the same one she carried for years, to every wedding and benefit and date night. He blinks away an unexpected rush of emotion. Looking at Angie now, she and Eliza could almost be the same person.  

“Ang,” Alex says, putting his book down and standing up. “You look beautiful.”

Angie shrugs down at the dress. “Mom picked it out after we got the tickets.”

“You look so...grown up.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Angie says, rolling her eyes and pulling her phone out of her clutch. “When’s Mr. Washington getting here?”

“Last time he texted the car was crossing the bridge, so soon,” Alex says. “And you’re still OK going with him? You promise?”

“Oh my God, Dad. Yes. For the millionth time.”

“OK, OK,” Alex says, holding his hands up in a surrender. His daughter had not resisted once to the idea, seemed sympathetic to his own ridiculous excuses and perhaps even intrigued by the idea of spending time with George. Alex had coached him, told George to avoid any and all conversations about their relationship. He wouldn’t put it past Angie to press for details.

A few minutes later, George arrives at the front door in a well-tailored jet black tuxedo that makes Alex’s stomach turn somersaults. He’s seen him dressed up enough times by now that he doesn’t expect such a reaction from himself, and yet…

“I feel so underdressed,” Alex jokes, gesturing down at his own t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. George looks him up and down and bites his lip, holding back a comment. His eyes flit away from Alex, over to Angie.

“Are we ready, Miss Hamilton?”

Angie beams and stands up a little straighter, nodding.

“You text me when you get there and when you’re leaving,” Alex reminds them, walking them back toward the door. He tries to ignore the fit of the tuxedo pants around George’s thighs.

“Got it,” George says, holding the door open for Angie, letting her head down the porch steps to the waiting car. He gives Alex a knowing smirk.

“I hate you,” Alex whispers, giving him a quick kiss, the door acting as a shield. “You’d better come in when you drop her off. I want to thank you properly.”

 

—

 

He’s having a nice dream, for once. It’s the weekend, there’s warm sunshine peeking through his bedroom curtains and the entire house smells like buttermilk pancakes and sweet syrup. He doesn’t know who’s cooking, though, because he has one strong arm wrapped around his middle, a bare chest pressed against his back. He twists around to face the person next to him.

“Happy anniversary,” he says, which is strange, because he and George met in October, didn’t start dating until December, and in this dream, it smells like summertime. George grabs his arm, pulls him closer…

“Alex?” Someone is shaking his shoulder. “Alex, we’re home.”

George is hovering over where he’s sleeping on the couch, his arm tossed behind his head, his book still clutched in his fist. He blinks up at him sleepily and grabs hold of George’s wrist, still caught in a fuzzy world between his dream and reality. He feels George tense under his grip.

“Alex,” George mutters, quiet enough so only he can hear. He pulls his arm away. “Angie’s here.”

That’s enough to wake him up. He sits upright and rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders and back, figures that’s what he gets for trying to sleep on the couch. Angie sits down next to him, George perches himself on the arm rest.

“How was the show?” Alex asks, angling his body away from George and toward Angie, painfully aware of how close George is. He looks at his watch and frowns. “Did it run long?”

“We went out for ice cream afterward,” George explains. “I texted you. Guess you slept through it.”

“The show was amazing,” Angie says, eyes bright. She pulls out a DVD case she’s forced inside her clutch, Julie Andrews twirling on the cover, the Alps behind her. “Mr. Washington bought me the movie.”

“That was very kind of him,” Alex glances back at George, smiling. “Ang, why don’t you thank him again and go up to bed, all right?”

Angie looks a little put out but she complies, smiling when George stands back up to pull her into a hug; Angie wrapping long arms around his waist, cheek pressed into his chest. George squeezes and lets her go.

“Thank you for letting me join you,” he smiles, giving her a little wave as she heads up the staircase, the skirt of her dress clutched in one hand.

George waits until they hear her bedroom door click, then sits next to Alex on the couch, pulling him tight against his side. Alex inhales his scent, that familiar mix of cologne and fresh nighttime air.

“I really did have an amazing time,” George says, brown eyes twinkling. “She’s such a bright girl, Alex.”

“She didn’t ask you about us?”

George shakes his head. “We talked mostly about school and going to Orlando.”

Alex nods and tilts his chin up, welcoming the warm, lingering kiss he’s been waiting for all day. George pushes into it, rough in a way that goes straight to Alex’s cock and melts his insides. George is starting to push him down onto the couch, like they’re two teenagers left home alone, when Alex pushes his palm flat against his chest.  

“Hang on a second,” Alex says, slipping out from under him and awkwardly dropping to his knees, parting George’s legs so he can fit between them. He doesn’t really feel sexy, clad in his ratty t-shirt with bedhead, but George’s eyes widen like saucers anyway.

“Alex.”

“They’re not gonna come downstairs,” Alex promises, already working on George’s pants, gesturing for him to lift up his hips, pulling down his underwear at the same time. He smiles when he sees George is already half-hard. It really doesn’t take much. “I’ve been waiting all night, ever since you walked in wearing this tux.”

George swallow and nods, shrugging off his jacket and loosening the bowtie so it falls limp around his collar. Alex heartbeat quickens at the sight. He takes a final look at the top of the staircase. They’re in the clear.

“Keep quiet,” he instructs, fingers digging into George’s warm thighs as he sets to work.

He’d been a bit apprehensive when they first started this, after being out of practice for over twenty years. But they became necessary during their lunchtime _rendezvous_ when there wasn’t time for much else, and Alex had no desire to become the male equivalent of a pillow princess. It was a lot like riding a bike, he’d joked with George, who would roll his eyes fondly and assure him everything felt amazing, _perfect_ , though he’s certain there were more than a few times George was sparing his feelings.

He’s determined to make this one good, though. Tries to reach back and find the version of himself that used to do this sort of thing in bar bathrooms and musty, dark bedrooms. Breathe through the nose, eye contact, moan a little, tease with the tongue, use a hand when he’s close, keep it slow at first, build it up. He knows from trial and error that George’ll feel bad if he gags, even if it’s for effect, so he’ll have to do his best to avoid that.

He swirls his tongue around the head first, giving George a few firm strokes until he’s fully hard, licks a couple wet strips from base to tip before taking him into his mouth, humming happily and rubbing his palm along the side of George’s bare thigh as he starts to bob his head. George is looking down at him with such open adoration that Alex is certain if his face wasn’t already red-hot, he’d be blushing. Alex closes his eyes as he sinks a little deeper and lingers there, just slightly past his comfort zone, flickering them open again and timing it perfectly with a soft, whiny moan. George’s head falls back against the couch, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

“Baby, your mouth…” he hears George trail off, so quiet he nearly misses it. Alex gives his leg another squeeze and keeps going.

He goes on like that for another minute or two, pushing his own pajama pants down to wrap a hand around his dick, moving in time with his mouth. His jaw is starting to ache a bit from the effort, so he pulls off with a pronounced _pop_ and starts working George with his hand, faster.

“Good?” Alex whispers, voice raspy. George nods, lets out a shaky breath.

“I’m close.”

“I’ve got you,” Alex promises, slicking his lips with his tongue before diving back in, letting his lips sink down to where his fist is still wrapped around George. George’s hips stutter and he moves to push Alex away by the shoulder. Alex almost pulls back but quickly remembers the couch, the tux. He doesn’t want to be the cause of an extra trip to the dry cleaner. Instead, he holds onto George’s hips, lets him finish down his throat just as Alex comes on the leg of his flannel pants.

“God, Alex, I l-” he hears George mutter to the ceiling, followed by a string of curse words. “Baby, you were _so good_.”

“I told you I wanted to thank you properly,” Alex teases, pulling up his own pants as George tucks himself back in.

“I don’t think I can stand,” George says, staring up at him, boneless.

“Yeah, well, my knees hurt,” Alex counters, retreating to the kitchen and coming back with a glass of ice water. He guzzles down half of it and gives the rest to George, sitting down next to him. “You’re going to have to go home eventually, though. No sleepovers, remember?”

“No sleepovers but you’ll suck me off in your living room,” George teases, no heat behind it.

“It’s different!” Alex says, crossing his arms stubbornly. He suddenly feels a little foolish. He could’ve at least taken it to the bedroom. He looks back at George uneasily. “I guess that was kind of bad.”

“They were upstairs, it’s nighttime, we were quiet. It was fun,” George shrugs, taking Alex’s hand and kissing his knuckles. “I think we need Vermont, though.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, mind wandering to the hot tub, room service, sleeping in together, surrounded by mountains instead of neighbors and children, being as noisy as they like. “We need Vermont.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry for the unplanned hiatus! This thing is still happening!
> 
>  
> 
> But this is more important: This chapter follows an election with a result that was not only unexpected, but incredibly upsetting for myself and countless others. The days that have followed have only proved that we have a lot to be afraid of with this new administration. And, as we figure things out, I want to encourage you to donate to the following organizations:
> 
>  
> 
> -[Planned Parenthood](https://www.plannedparenthood.org/), in support of women's health and reproductive rights 
> 
>  
> 
> -[Mother Jones](https://secure.motherjones.com/fnp/?action=SUBSCRIPTION&list_source=7HEGP001&extra_don=1&abver=A), in support of the free press and independent media
> 
>  
> 
> -[Immigrant Defense Project](http://www.immdefense.org/), to help protect the rights of all immigrants 
> 
>  
> 
> -[Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDs](https://broadwaycares.org/)
> 
>  
> 
> There are countless others. When you leave a comment, let me know what organizations you've donated to and I'll share them in the next update.
> 
>  
> 
> Take care! I'm always at a-schuyler on tumblr. 

“Sorry,” Alex apologizes, flipping his phone over, screen on the table. It buzzes again. “George is packing. It’s a whole thing.”

“It’s only three nights,” Angelica laughs, stabbing a piece of chicken salad with her fork. “What’s his deal?”

Their server, pitcher in hand, stops by the table and their conversation comes to a halt. Angelica pushes her water glass to the edge with a little nod.

“You know how he can be,” Alex says once their glasses are full and the waitress has walked away. He waves a hand down at his phone. “He’s trying to coordinate who’s bringing what and I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t even know where my suitcase is.”

Angelica gives him a thin smile and swallows her bite of salad. Alex frowns.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Angelica assures him, her tone almost teasing now. “It’s just that you two have never spent that much time alone together. Are you nervous?”

“Nah,” Alex shrugs, squirting ketchup over his fries and the inside of his burger bun. “We’ve made it this far. I’m sure we can go on a vacation together. But, hey, you and I haven’t had lunch together in ages — let’s talk about your trip. The kids could barely sleep, they’re so excited about flying out tonight-”

“Speaking of the kids,” Angelica interrupts, putting her fork down and leaning back in the booth. “Can I just say something? I like George. I mean, I  _ really _ like him. And I’m just wondering, you know? When you think you’ll be ready?”

Alex swallows, throat suddenly tight. “To tell the kids?”

“Yeah.”

Alex takes a long sip of water and bides his time. He hasn’t brought Angie and Will up yet — not since the night they agreed to wait on it for a while longer. And with Christmas and the new year on the horizon, he’s quickly approaching the post-holiday deadline he’s set for himself. Keeping George a secret for too long after the holidays feels like a recipe for disaster. They’re already walking on eggshells. 

“I’m still trying to make sure we do it right,” Alex shrugs, eyes down on his plate. “I don’t want to stress them out, and I don’t want George’s feelings to get hurt if it doesn’t go well. It’s just hard to find that balance.”

“They see him all the time,” Angelica reasons. “They see that he treats you well. They get along with him. It’s going to take some adjustment no matter what, but I wouldn’t underestimate them.”

“It means a lot to have your blessing,” Alex says. “You know, we’ve had this conversation before. But you were drunk.”

“Oh, I remember. And I meant what I said,” Angelica laughs, absently stirring her water with her straw. “Listen, if George is the person who makes each day a little easier, a little bit brighter, you deserve that.”

“You do, too,” Alex reminds her. 

She smiles, not quite meeting Alex’s eyes. Jefferson, London, the weight of everything that’s happened, everything that he still hasn’t properly digested, lingering between them for a moment.

“Well,” she says. “One step at a time.” 

“Of course,” Alex agrees, grabbing a fry, a little cold now. “OK. I’ll bring up the kids with George while we’re on our trip.” 

He pushes it to the back of his mind as soon as he says it. Doesn’t want to dwell on it. Not now. His phone buzzes again.

“If you need to take that…”

“No, no,” Alex says, muting his phone and shoving it in his back pocket. “We’re going to be together for three days. I can have lunch with you for forty-five minutes. So, tell me about this enterprise thing you and Burr are tag-teaming.”

 

—

 

The house is too quiet once the kids are gone, so Alex sleeps over at George’s the night leading into their trip. George makes him eggplant parmesan for dinner and he falls asleep shortly after eleven, tucked in next to George on what’s become his side of the bed. It all feels so normal, natural. He even notices, just as he’s drifting off, that George, still awake and reading through emails, dims his iPad screen. It’s sweet. Thoughtful. But at 4:55 a.m., George is shaking his shoulder, and suddenly none of that matters.

“Why,” Alex groans, pulling the duvet over his head. “Are you doing this to me?”

“We need to get an early start,” George says, running a hand over the back of Alex’s T-shirt. “Come on. On my way home I grabbed coffee and croissants for our breakfast.”

Alex frowns and pushes the duvet back. Sure enough, George is sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a tight red quarter-zip, compression pants, gloves and fleece ear warmers.

“You went jog- God, nevermind,” he says, collapsing back against the pillows. “Can you give me another hour?”

George smiles and squeezes his shin over the blankets. “I’m going to jump in the shower, and then we really need to go. I’d like to get there before one.”

Alex stares at him. “We could’ve flown. Like normal people.”

“But we’re going to have fun,” George promises. He leans down and gives Alex a soft peck, his lips still cold from the outside air. “Get dressed and get some coffee in you.”

It takes a substantial amount of effort, but Alex manages to roll out of bed and make his way to the kitchen, locating the croissant and coffee on the counter and finishing off both before George turns off the shower. A valet has already brought his car out to the front of the building by the time they haul their luggage through the empty lobby.

He watches George pop open the hatchback and load their suitcases into the SUV, holding back a comment on the absurdity of such a beautiful car collecting dust in some parking garage, barely driven. Once he’s buckled in, the car’s interior proves his suspicions. It’s been freshly vacuumed and detailed; some quarters in the cup holder and a single toll booth slip resting on top of the dashboard serve as the only proof George has ever actually been inside.

George turns up the heat, then presses a button, smiling at Alex. “Seat warmer.” 

Sure enough, the leather underneath his thighs and shoulders starts to heat up.

“Nap for a few hours if you’d like,” George says, pulling away from the curb. 

“You won’t get bored?”

“No,” George laughs. The street is mostly empty. Quiet. The city only just beginning to wake up. Alex drops his head against the seat and closes his eyes, asleep before they even merge onto the interstate. 

 

—

 

The dashboard clock reads 9:03 a.m. when he wakes. The car is silent with the exception of a book on tape rambling on softly in the background and the hum of tires against pavement. The sun is already high and bright in the sky. 

“You’re awake,” George says cheerily, punching a button on the steering wheel, turning the radio off.

“I am.” Alex is less enthusiastic about it, but he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and flips the sun visor down. “Do you want me to drive for a bit?”

“No need. We’re making good time right now. We’re in Massachusetts, just north of Northampton.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “I slept through Connecticut?”

“You did,” George smiles, eyes still on the road. “You’ve actually slept through most of the trip. We’ll be there in a couple hours.”

“Sorry I haven’t been much company,” Alex says sheepishly. But George keeps smiling.

“I’ve enjoyed the peace and quiet,” he teases, glancing over at Alex. “Besides, I’d rather have you catch up on sleep than be awake and surly.”

“Smart man,” Alex says, grabbing his phone out of the cup holder and scrolling through his notifications. He has a text from Angelica, a photo of Will and Angie posing with Mulan and Shang and a couple CNN news alerts. He’d read and cleared out his work inbox before leaving, but he’s already collected forty-two unread emails. He looks at the clock again. 9:06. He’s been on vacation for six minutes.

It has to be a new record. He struggles to remember the last time he’s enjoyed a completely work-free holiday. Surely it wasn’t as far back as his honeymoon? He drops his head against the seat and groans. “Do you have a car charger?”

“You’re off the clock. Work can wait.”

“It’s just a couple emails,” Alex lies, swiping open his inbox. “It’ll be easier if I take care of it now so it’s not on my mind the entire time. I’ll unplug the second we get to the cabin. Promise.”

“I’m holding you to that,” George says, popping open the center console, one hand still on the top of the steering wheel. His eyes dart from the road and back to the tangled pile of cords he’s digging through. “We have the same phone, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, all iPhones have the same charger-”

Several things happen in a matter of seconds. It takes Alex a moment to piece it together. There’s a sharp, frightened gasp that he doesn’t immediately recognize as George’s, and he feels his stomach dropping just as the car brakes, his body lurching forward in the seat, the seat belt digging into his hips and chest. George swings his arm across Alex’s chest as they slow down, anchoring him, and a small gray Prius zips in front of them, no turn signal, down the exit ramp. 

It’s so trivial. Something he knows comes with driving on the same road as every other asshole who owns a car, yet his heart continues to pound in his chest, even as they pick up speed again. George pulls his arm back. 

“Sorry,” George says quietly, sounding a little breathless himself. He plants both hands on the steering wheel and sighs, tense. “Are you OK?”

“You Mom-armed me.”

George laughs shakily, relieved, his shoulders slumping. “Well, you know. Precious cargo, as they say.”

Alex grins down at his lap, face flushed. It’s such a stupidly cutesy thing to say, Alex almost wants to be annoyed with him. But he can’t stop smiling. He’s felt this way twice in his life, so he knows the warning signs. He knows what it’s like when the sky finally clears, when the fluttering in his stomach settles and suddenly there’s clarity and purpose and an indescribable sense of comfort and ease. He’s felt it for some time now, the words spinning in the back of his mind and even sometimes finding their way to the tip of his tongue. 

He doesn’t care how it looks — not anymore. Nor does he care what Jefferson or anyone else says about them. This has never been a matter of convenience for him — between everything Eliza left them, the life insurance payout, he’s confident he and the kids could live comfortably for years to come. Keeping his distance, never opening himself up again — _ that _ would’ve been convenient. But  _ this? _ This is everything he thought he didn’t want, everything he thought he’d be better off without. It’s not like he ever really had a say in any of this. He’s been gone since that moment George found Will in the park.

“Hey.” George’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “You got quiet.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“The phone charger’s in there somewhere,” George says, nodding down at the console. “If you wanted to do your work.”

“No, you’re right, it can wait,” Alex decides. George raises both brows. He nods at the radio. “What were you listening to while I was sleeping?”

George shrugs. “It’s an older book. Covers a few prominent Supreme Court sessions from the early 1970s and the inner workings of the justices — it’s actually quite the journalistic feat. You might find it interesting.”

“Well, this vacation is already off to a thrilling start,” Alex teases, grinning when George chuckles softly and turns the radio back on.

 

—

 

Their cabin is excessive, to put it lightly. It’s all dark wood paneling and warm tones, and more room than they could ever need. The master bedroom’s balcony hangs over the patio and hot tub and, inside, it’s spacious and airy, far less quaint than he anticipated. 

“What do you think?” George asks, dropping their bags on the floors with a dull thud.

“It’s lovely,” Alex answers, wandering into the kitchen. The cabinets and fridge are already stocked with food for their stay, and there are five bottles of wine waiting in the countertop wine rack. “You didn’t have to go all out like this.”

“We’re on vacation,” George reminds him, shrugging off his parka and draping it over the back of one of the dining chairs. “I wanted to.”

Alex wants to tell him he’d be content at a Holiday Inn, so long as they had a bed and a minibar, but he can’t deny this place is  _ nice. _ He runs a hand along the cold countertops, smiling when he feels George step up behind him, touching his hip and brushing his lips against the back of his head.

“I’m going to go take a nap. We have a dinner reservation at six.”

While George rests, Alex makes himself at home in the office attached to the master bedroom. It’s a little room with a brown sofa and an antique credenza desk, with only a small lamp placed on the surface. He answers most of his emails, relieved to find a handful of them are useless press releases he doesn’t need to bother himself with reading. The others are simple enough — responses to his interview requests, a resume from a recent graduate and one angry email from a reader about a factual error in some fluff piece that ran on A6. He forwards that one to Burr, spends the next hour or so preparing for his interviews next week, and packs away his laptop so George will be none the wiser once he’s up.

He steps into their bedroom with the intention of waking George — it’s already 4:30 p.m., he’s bored, and he knows George will want some time to dress and prepare for dinner. But the sight of him curled up on top of the bedspread, breathing softly against the pillow, makes Alex pause in the doorway. 

Aside from his coat, he’s only slipped off his shoes — leather oxfords lined up perfectly against the wall. The pants and sweater he’s sleeping in are the same ones he wore during their drive and, as Alex approaches the bed, he hears the soft, familiar snores he’s learned to adore. 

Alex sits on the edge of the mattress, resisting the temptation to touch his cheek or lean down and rouse him with a kiss. Instead, he tugs the cashmere throw blanket at the foot of the bed out from under George’s feet and drapes it over him. George clears his throat and pushes his face into the pillow, but otherwise doesn’t move. Alex is contemplating climbing in next to him when he feels a buzz in his pocket.

He reads the caller ID — Angie. His stomach drops for no particular reason, it’s just a natural response now, whenever he gets an unexpected call. He hurries out of the bedroom and takes the call as he’s walking back down the stairs, into the kitchen.

“Ang?”

“Hey, dad. It’s me.”

Alex leans against one of the countertops, lets out a sigh when he realizes, with relief, she’s only called to talk. “Hey. What’s up? Shouldn’t you be at the park right now?”

“We just got back to the hotel,” Angie says. In the background, Alex can hear voices, a toilet flush. “Will got sick on one of the rides so we had to leave.”

“Oh God, is he OK?”

“He’s  _ fine. _ Aunt Angelica is having him lie down,” Angie sighs, irritated. “We’re just going to end up missing half a day.”

“Sorry, honey,” Alex says, crossing the kitchen and sitting down at the table. “But are you having fun so far?”

“I am.” He hears a door shut, cutting off the voices in the background. “I don’t know. I wish you would’ve come this year.”

Alex frowns, silent for a beat. “Why? What’s wrong? You always do this trip with Aunt Angelica and your brother.”

“Nothing’s  _ wrong _ ,” Angie says. “But the other times you had mom to keep you company-”

“Oh, Ang, don’t worry about me-”

“-But now you’re just spending the week alone.”

Alex glances back up the staircase, toward the master bedroom, and cringes. “Hey, like I said — don’t worry about me. I miss you guys, but I’m OK. Maybe next year I’ll come. We’ll all go.”

“You’re not bored?”

“I’m not bored,” Alex promises. “Mr. Washington and I — we, uh, we talked about grabbing lunch. Or dinner. At some point. Don’t worry.”

He feels a little nauseous as the fumbled lie spills out, but he’s out of options. It’s not as if he can tell his daughter where he is or who he’s with — certainly not over the phone. Upstairs, he hears the bedroom door creak open.

“Hey, Ang? I gotta go,” he says, pushing out his chair and standing up. “Tell your aunt to text me when Will’s feeling better, OK?”

“OK. Let Mr. Washington know I say ‘hi.’ Love you.”

“Will do. I love you, too.”

He sets his phone face down on the top of the oak table, the tension lifts from his shoulders. So, he just lied to his daughter.  _ Really _ lied. He finds a little bit of comfort, knowing that it’s harmless — knowing it’s something he can and will fix. 

Soon. He has to tell her soon. 

Alex manages a smile — a stiff but genuine one — as George makes his way down the stairs, changed and ready for dinner. It’s time to make good on what he promised Angelica. 

 

—

 

They have dinner at a cozy restaurant a few miles from their cabin. It’s quite different from their usual haunts in the city — more comfort foods and larger portions, and Alex can’t complain about that. George orders them Irish hot chocolates that go straight to Alex’s head by the time they’ve finished their meals and moved on to dessert. It’s the perfect kind of buzz — the kind that makes him feel warm and on the right side of sleepy. From the way George fumbles with the pen while he signs the bill, Alex can tell he’s feeling it, too.

It’s inside the restaurant entrance, bundled up in scarves and coats, waiting for their cab, that Alex drops his head against George’s shoulder and grabs his hand.

“We should tell the kids after the New Year.”

George pulls back to look at him, his grip on Alex’s hand tightening. “Really? You’re ready?”

“Absolutely,” Alex breathes, a little giddy from the mix of booze and adrenaline. “I mean, I think I am. I’m going to have to be. What I know is, we can’t keep them in the dark any longer. It’s not fair for them or us. And, I mean, you...George, I-”

He stutters, losing the sudden rush of courage almost as soon as it arrives. 

“I think we make a good team,” he tries, picking up on the way George’s face falls, and how it would’ve been unnoticeable if Alex didn’t know exactly what to look for: The little twitch of his lower lip, the way he glances away. “Really. These past couple months would’ve been...unmanageable without you. There’s no one else I want to do this with.”

“Wow,” George ducks his head, smiling. When he looks back up, Alex swears his eyes are shining. “I’m ready. I’ve been ready. But only if you’re certain.”

“I should tell them alone,” Alex thinks out loud while George nods along. “See how it goes, answer their questions, test the waters. Whatever they say, however they react...we’ll cross that bridge later.”

“All right,” George says, tugging him closer just as their cab pulls up, the snow crunching under its tires.

“All right,” Alex echoes, pushing himself up for a kiss.

 

—

 

George opens up a fresh bottle of dessert wine as soon as they make it back to the cabin. One bottle quickly turns into two, and Alex doesn’t quite know how they end up on the living room floor, but one moment George is kissing him on the couch, and the next they’re sprawled out on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, Alex’s head resting on George’s arm.

“I can’t believe this cabin has an electric fireplace,” Alex says, setting his emptied wine glass aside, watching the fake orange and yellow flames flicker. There’s even a recorded cracking sound. “Kind of feels like a cop-out.”

He feels George’s shoulder lift in a shrug. “It’s safer this way. Less maintenance, no annual chimney cleanings.”

“Mmm,” Alex hums, nudging George’s hip with his knees, closing his eyes as the ceiling begins to spin. Next to him, he can feel George’s breathing start to even out. They’re going to wake up angry and aching if they fall asleep on the floor like this. He jabs George with his knee again. “Don’t sleep yet.”

“What?” George laughs. “Do you want to hear more about how electric fireplaces reduce energy costs?”

“As exciting as that sounds…” Alex grins, swaying slightly when he sits up. George reaches out and rests a steadying hand on the small of his back. “I don’t think we should waste a single night here.”

George, all hooded eyes and parted lips, slips a hand under the back of Alex’s shirt, the tips of his fingers dipping under his pants. Alex inhales, back arching, mostly for George’s benefit. “What did you have in mind?”

Alex doesn’t answer, just clumsily unbuttons his shirt, tossing it onto the couch once it’s off and slumping against George’s chest. They kiss like that for a few hazy minutes, messy and drunk and rough in a way Alex isn’t very accustomed to but doesn’t hate. George seems to be all teeth tonight, so he reciprocates, biting down on George’s bottom lip and tugging, just hard enough to make George gasp, hips pushing up against Alex’s.

“Tell me what you want,” George purrs, hooking a leg over Alex’s, starting to roll their bodies over, his hand starting to work at Alex’s belt. “Here? On the floor?”

Fuck. He  _ does  _ want that. But he had a plan for this night, so he tries to push past the part of him that just wants George to take care of him, like he always does, and presses his palm flat against George’s chest, keeping him at a distance.

George’s face falls. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“Perfect,” Alex says on an exhale, dropping his hand. 

“If the wine was too much-”

“No, no,” Alex reassures him, lifting both hands now to grab onto his shoulders. “I just...kind of wanted to try something new tonight.”

The wariness in George’s face melts, lips turning up into a smile as he laces their fingers together on his shoulder. Their lips meet for a kiss, softer and sweeter than before, and it’s enough to give Alex a new burst of courage.

“I’m gonna need you on your stomach,” Alex says, smiling when George’s eyes widen. “Just trust me.”

George obediently crawls off of him, pulling off his own shirt and rolling down his pants and boxer briefs. He’s already half hard, Alex notices, drinking in the dark thighs, the thick, coarse hair trailing down his stomach. He’s become so familiar with George’s body over the weeks — every curve and muscle, the surprisingly soft stomach. What felt so foreign to him before feels like home now, and that alone tells him he’s done something right. That he and George, for all their setbacks, for all the waiting they’ve had to endure — they’ll be all right. They have to be.

It’s beautiful, the way George arranges himself on the floor — head resting lazily on his folded arms, a leg bent under his body to keep his ass sticking up. Alex crawls over, taking a handful and squeezing, gingerly placing a kiss on the small of his back when George pushes up into his grip.

“Good? George?”

“I- yes,” George answers, voice strained. “It’s been awhile since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Well,” Alex says, drenching his own fingers with saliva and brushing his entrance, grinning when George moans into the crook of his elbow, hips bucking up. “Their loss.”

He sets to work, grazing his teeth over the side of George’s ass, pinching the skin, teasing and playing. George is quiet aside from heavy, strained breathing, but Alex doesn’t mind — it won’t take long. He wastes no time moving two soaked fingers back to George’s entrance, massaging him with little circles as he uses his other hand to grab hold of one cheek and spread him open a little wider. 

If it’s been awhile for George, Alex can guarantee it’s been longer for him. But George treats him to this often enough — it’s not exactly rocket science. He stirs more saliva in his mouth, letting it drip from his lips, warm and heavy, over George, testing the waters with a brush of his lips. George eagerly lifts his hips higher, gasping, so Alex dives back in, switching between flattening his tongue and circling him with the tip. There’s no difference, really — George loves it all, writhing under him, whispering his name into his arm. 

It’s a gamble, but Alex grabs onto his thighs and grazes him with his teeth, the same trick George loves to try on him, and that’s what does it — George lets out a shout that turns into a groan, loud enough to rattle Alex and give him pause.

“You like that?” Alex teases, dipping one hand lower to cradle George’s balls, giving his ass another squeeze with the opposite hand. 

“Alexander,” George says. And the use of his full name is enough to make Alex fully harden in his pants; it’s clear that even though George is the one with his ass in the air, he’s still somehow in control. “I’m going to…”

Alex rolls him over onto his back and, sure enough, his cock is hard against his stomach, heavy and leaking. His eyes travel up George’s body, to the heaving chest and glassy eyes. The room still feels unsteady, a bit wobbly, so he tries to stay focused, letting George ground him.

With a little too much confidence and eagerness, he takes George into his mouth, until he feels a burning stretch at the corner of his lips, pulling back just enough when George thrusts up into him.

“Don’t swallow.”

Alex’s brow furrows. He slips his lips off of George, letting his hand do the work. “Sorry, what? What do you…?”

George cranes his neck up and lifts an eyebrow. Alex’s stomach flip-flops.

“Oh. OK.”

It only takes a minute longer, maybe two, before George finishes, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. Carefully, Alex pulls off of George’s softening cock and travels up the length of his body, spine tingling when George looks up at him through slitted eyes and parts his lips.

He lets George’s come drip into his mouth, rolling onto his side when George passes it back to him. They continue, back and forth, until it’s too much, too messy, so Alex swallows (a mistake he realizes almost immediately) and George retreats to the bathroom, turning on the sink. 

Alex sprawls out on his back and stares up at the ceiling, heart still pounding when George comes back out into the living room, dressed in one of the plush white robes. George moves to join him, but Alex shakes his head and flings an arm toward the kitchen.

“Water. Please.”

He swears he hears George chuckle as he makes his way to the fridge, returning with two large water bottles and rejoining Alex on the floor. Alex grabs his bottle and drains nearly half of it in one go.

“Maybe we should drink more often,” he says after a couple beats of silence.

George smiles. “Thank you. For all of that. If you give me a little while, I can…”

Alex’s face heats up. He nods. “Yeah. Back in the bedroom?”

“I think that’s a good idea.” George looks him up and down, skeptical. “Can you stand up without falling over?”

“That’s to be determined.”

George taps the lid on Alex’s water bottle. “Sit for a little while longer and finish your water.” He rises to his feet. “I’m going to go set up the coffee maker for tomorrow morning. And then we should probably get some Ibuprofen in you.”

He tosses Alex a throw pillow from the couch and turns to go, but Alex reaches up and grabs his wrist, stopping him.

“Hey.”

George smiles down at him, amused. “Yes?”

“You’re going to be great with them. The kids.”

George’s eyebrows shoot up. “An odd time to bring that up, but thank you.”

“I was going to tell you earlier, but then we were drinking, and...but you should know. They’re going to love you. They already do love you.”

George looks as if his breath’s been knocked out of him, but he smiles anyway, shaky. “I love them, too.”

He hesitates a moment. Shakes his head. “I’ll be right back.”

Alex nods and drops George’s wrist, settling down onto the pillow.   
  



	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a-schuyler on tumblr, come chat there!

It’s still dark outside when Alex wakes up, mouth bone dry and head throbbing. He’s kicked off his blankets at some point in the night and, it would appear, changed out of his button-up and into one of the cotton t-shirts from his suitcase.

The night before comes back to him in a series of unattached, almost random memories and he blinks up at the dark ceiling, suppressing a groan. The little clock on their bedside table reads 5:38 a.m. Far too early to be awake, but hangovers have always turned him into an unwilling early riser. He has to piss, but he’s pretty certain if he stands upright he’ll vomit right onto their bedroom floor. It’s not exactly how he wants to wake George up.

He’s weighing his options when George, next to him, stirs on his own —  sighing loudly through his nose and rolling onto one side to face Alex, eyes slowly blinking open.

“Sorry,” Alex says, cringing at the hoarseness of his voice. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“That’s all right. I’ve been tossing and turning, anyway,” George says around a yawn. His eyes scan over Alex’s face once or twice, taking him in. “Do you feel all right? What’s the last thing you remember?”

Alex thinks it over. “Um, you gave me some water and an Ibuprofen? Weren’t we coming up here to…?”

“Well, that was out of the question, even before you tripped up the stairs,” George says, chuckling softly. “You were out almost as soon as you hit the bed.”

“Great,” Alex sighs, turning his face into his pillow. Another wave of nausea. He feels tears start to prick his eyes and hastily wipes them away. “I think I’m dying.”

George pushes himself up onto one elbow, a dark silhouette as Alex’s eyes adjust to the room. “What can I do?”

“How are you not hungover right now?” Alex whines, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

“You should go back to sleep,” George says, lowering his voice and pushing Alex’s hair back with a light brush of his fingers. “Just a couple more hours. I was going to start breakfast, anyway.”

Alex’s stomach churns at the mere mention, but he nods anyway, rolling over into the warm spot George leaves behind on the sheets and inhaling, just enough to catch the fresh scent of his body wash. It doesn’t do much to ease his nausea, though. George rubs a few soothing circles into his back, kisses the top of his head. A few heavy footsteps across the bedroom and the click of the door, and he’s gone.

He doesn’t sleep well, but manages to shower and dress without vomiting when he wakes. By the time he makes his way down the stairs, dizzy and unsteady, he has no appetite for the homemade veggie omelette George places in front of him at the kitchen table.

“Are you still feeling up for going out on the slopes this morning?” George asks, sounding dejected as he watches Alex’s fork tear at the egg. “We could take it easy…”

“No, no,” Alex shakes his head, giving him a tight, convincing smile. “I’m already feeling better.”

That’s partially true. He hasn’t thrown up, and he’s sitting upright. That has to count for something.

“It’ll be fine,” Alex says, forcing down a bite of omelette. His stomach rumbles angrily. “I’m totally fine.”

 

—

 

“You’re lucky, Mr. Hamilton,”  the doctor says, pushing back the divider curtain and stepping up next to Alex’s bed, a French-tipped finger tracing down his chart. “Your ankle’s sprained. Some torn ligaments, but there’s no fracture or break. You’ll just need ice and rest. We’ll send you on your way with a walking boot.”

“What about the bruising?” George asks, touching Alex’s hand where it’s resting on top of the mattress. “He fell pretty hard on his shoulder, shouldn’t you-”

“Keep the shoulder iced, too. There’s not much else we can aside from some prescription-strength painkillers,” the doctor says, giving George a calm smile. “He’ll be a little tender for a few days, but the damage isn’t severe. He’s lucky he was wearing a helmet.”

“OK,” George says slowly. He’s agitated. Alex can see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, the intensity in his eyes. “But you haven’t done an X-ray. On his foot or his shoulder. How can you be sure?”

Alex sighs and flips his hand over, giving George’s a squeeze. “George…”

“He still has some range of motion,” she says patiently, returning Alex’s apologetic smile. “Of course, Mr. Hamilton, if your condition doesn’t improve in about fourteen days, you should pay your doctor a visit. I’ll go tell the front desk you’re ready to be discharged.”

“Thank you,” Alex calls after her, watching the blue curtain fall shut. He glances over at George, who’s busy staring across the sectioned-off room and biting back words. Alex squeezes his hand again. “Are you OK?”

George finally looks at him, baffled. “You _fell._ ”

“Down a slope,” Alex nods. “A steep one. I know. I was there.”

“Jesus,” George breathes out in a near-whisper, smacking his forehead with his palm. “Do you realize how terrifying that was to watch, Alex? You were barely moving when I got to you. Do you do have any idea how many people _die_ from skiing accidents?”

“Hey,” Alex snaps, a little taken aback. “It’s not like I fell on purpose. I wasn’t _trying_ to freak you out.”

“I know, I know,” George says, gentler now. “I just wish you would’ve said something.”

“Said something?”

“When I asked if you were feeling up for skiing,” George reminds him. “We didn’t have to go out today.”

“I didn’t fall because I was…” Alex trails off, frustrated. The truth is, he hadn’t felt steady on his feet. He’d been dizzy and nauseous, swaying when George wasn’t looking and trying to keep his eyes fixed on the snow-covered ground. “Are you mad at me or something?”

It’s not a totally unreasonable question. He’ll be practically bedridden for the last two days of their trip —  or at least reduced to hobbling around and slowing them down. It’s not what George signed up for. Alex can’t blame him if he’s pissed.

“No, of course not,” George says, pulling his hand out from under Alex’s and resting it on his own knee. “I’m sorry. This morning has been a whirlwind. But all that matters is that you’re in one piece. Are the painkillers starting to kick in?”

Alex closes his eyes and nods, even as his foot and shoulder throb with pain. He’s tempted to throw back the scratchy hospital sheet and take a closer look at his ankle, bruised purple and black, swollen to twice its usual size. He doesn’t know what on Earth he’ll tell the kids when they see him —  he tripped running down a set of stairs? Slipped on a patch of ice?

Beside him, George adjusts one of the pillows behind Alex’s head, forcing him to lean forward for a moment, eyes still screwed shut in a grimace. George’s hand lingers on his good shoulder.

“If you want to go home, we can fly. I could arrange to have the car driven back to Manhattan-”

“George, baby,” Alex shakes his head, shocked even as the word leaves his own lips, though it’s worth it for the startled but pleased way George’s eyebrows quirk upward. “It’s just a sprained ankle. I want to finish our vacation, if you do.”

George nods. Alex grabs hold of his hand, pressing his lips against the back of it.

“Let’s go back to the cabin.”

When they arrive he sets himself up in front of the living room TV, booted foot resting on a cushioned chair, a little overheated from the thick quilts George drapes over his lap and shoulders and the hot tea George brews for him. One sugar cube and a little splash of milk. It’s not how Alex would usually take it —  he’s not a big tea drinker to begin with, not like Eliza was —  but he slowly sips down the entire mug once it cools.

It occurs to him that George has never quite had this. Maybe the occasional sick boyfriend. But no one to really fuss over, no accident-prone kids to rush to the emergency room after falls from monkey bars or slips on wet bathroom floor tiles. So it’s more endearing than anything else when George returns from the kitchen, a plate in each hand.

“It’s a pimento BLT,” George says, passing him one of the plates. He doesn’t move. “Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Alex says, patting the leather cushion. “Will you sit down with me?”

He presses his shoulder against George’s once he joins him on the couch, wincing. So he’s a little more beaten up than he thought. It’s fine. He’ll be even sorer in the morning, but George doesn’t have to know that.

“Thanks for cooking,” Alex says, nudging him with his elbow and taking a bite of the sandwich. “This is great.”

George shoots him a funny look, then smiles. “And here I was, gearing up for a lecture on caring about you too much.”

“Mm,” Alex hums between another bite. “Maybe later.”

 

—

 

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful. Alex falls asleep on the couch watching _It’s A Wonderful Life_ and wakes up to a quiet house and a note, handwritten in George’s cursive, waiting for him on the coffee table.

_Had to run out and pick up some souvenirs for Martha and the Lafayettes. Didn’t want to wake you. Call if you need me to pick up anything. -G_

Alex folds the note in half and sets it back down, frowning down the length of his leg at his booted foot. He doesn’t give a fuck about skiing. But he does want to explore Stowe with George, take pictures together, bicker over which chocolates he should bring back for Georges de Lafayette.  

And he wants to play around a little more, finish what they started last night and make sure George knows, good and well, how incredibly grateful he is. He’d be lying if he claimed he’d never thought about fucking George. It’s not something they’ve ever discussed, though he gets the impression George doesn’t try it often —  seems rather secure in the role he plays. And while Alex certainly had different, varying tastes back when he was eagerly fucking anyone ready and willing, he doesn’t mind. He likes what they do —  loves the way George’s body complements his, loves the red marks he leaves on Alex’s hips when he holds on a little too tight, loves the comforting weight of his body when he collapses on top of him, panting and spent.

But he still wonders. He’d had plans. He gives the boot a little wiggle and tries to roll his shoulder, gasping from the sharp pain that shoots up through his neck. George’ll be too afraid to touch him while he’s like this.

His phone, vibrating loudly across the coffee table, jolts him back to reality. It takes a bit of effort, but he manages to push himself forward and snatch it up. He turns it over and stares at the screen, expects to see George or Angelica’s name flashing up at him.

Instead, it reads _John Laurens._

Alex’s stomach twists anxiously, for no reason other than the fact they haven’t talked since their fleeting email exchange after Thanksgiving. It feels like ages ago, yet it hasn’t even been a month.

He accepts the call before he can change his mind.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Alex!” The sound of a car door slamming shut, a hand over the mouthpiece as John rattles off directions to someone, muffled. His voice comes back, loud and clear now. “Guess where I am?”

“John? Hey man, what’s going on?” Alex asks, unable to hide his own confusion. But John carries on, doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m in the city!” John says happily. “We made last minute Christmas plans with mom’s side of the family so we’re in town for a couple days. Just flew in this morning.”

“Oh, well-”

“I emailed you last night but didn’t hear back. I hope it’s OK that I called?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex says quickly, a little flustered. “Of course. I mean, I haven’t looked at my email since yesterday morning. George and I are up in Vermont and we’re trying to stay unplugged as much as possible.”

John falls silent. Several seconds pass. “Sorry, you and George? Babysitter George?”

“I-? Oh.” Alex screws his eyes shut. Now it’s his turn to let the silence between them build. “Fuck. I never told you.”

“Alex, are you fucking your babysitter?”

“No!” Alex snaps. Pauses. “Well, I mean, yes. But we’re...he’s my boyfriend.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, pulling one of the throw pillows into his lap and tugging on a loose thread, unraveling the stitching. “So that’s happening.”

“That’s, um.” For a moment, all Alex hears is the radio in John’s cab, a Billy Joel song muffled in the distance. “That was fast.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. They’re not going to fight. “But it started off as just casual fun, you know? And then it turned into...well, what it is now.”

“And you like him?”

 _More than like,_ Alex thinks, but John can’t be the first to know. “Of course I like him. I know you didn’t get a chance to really talk to him, but George is great, John. He makes me feel good. Happy.”

Another heavy pause. “You guys weren’t...when I…?”

“No. After Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, OK. Good.”

Alex clears his throat. “You’re going back to Burkina Faso next month, yeah? Maybe we can try and see each other sometime before then? I’m telling the kids about George after the New Year, so hopefully things will calm down.”

He pauses again, waits for John to respond. Nothing.

“I’d love to have you over,” he tries. “You can get to know George. I mean, once you’re back in Burkina Faso, who knows when we’ll have a chance to get together?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, a little too cheerfully, too detached. “We should totally make that happen.”

And Alex’s stomach sinks. He knows what’ll happen. Any plans they make will fall through. John’ll send him a couple more polite messages. He’ll go back to West Africa, and that’ll be the end of it.

“Enjoy the city,” Alex offers, pushing the pillow off his lap. “You going to Magnolia?”

“Always,” John laughs. “Can’t pass up those cupcakes.”

“Perfect time of year for it, too.”

“Yeah,” John says. “Uh, it was good talking to you, Alex. Good luck with George and...everything else. I hope you’re happy.”

“I am.”

“Bye, Alex.”

“Merry Christmas.”

He taps the red _end call_ button on his screen and collapses back against the couch, staring up at the vaulted before letting his eyes fall shut.

It hurts less than he expected, their ending. In fact, it feels more like relief.

 

—

 

“I need to know,” Alex says, much later, limp and draped over their bed, watching George undress with poorly disguised interest. “What’s the plan tonight? Are we…?”

George unbuttons the last button on his shirt and shrugs out of it, grabbing a hanger from the closet and throwing Alex a stern look over his shoulder. “You’ve had a long day. I doubt you’re up for it.”

He opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it, settling on watching George step out of his trousers and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. He hates to admit it, but with the pain still fresh in his shoulder, a long night’s rest does sound far more enticing.

“But tomorrow _is_ our last night,” Alex reminds George as he makes his way to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress where Alex’s head is resting.

“It is,” George chuckles, letting his thumb graze the curve of Alex’s jaw. “We’ll have to make up for it, then. If you’re feeling well enough, of course.”

“Yeah.” Alex pulls George’s hand away from his face and uses it to drag him down for a kiss. “I’m sure I can manage.”

“I’m sure,” George says, settling down next to him, eyes twinkling. “Oh —  I picked up a few books I thought Angelica might like. Remind me to show them to you tomorrow. I can always return the ones you don’t think she’ll enjoy.”

“Oh, she’ll love anything you get her, I’m sure.”

“I’d still like you to take a look,” George says, twisting a strand of Alex’s hair around his index finger, watching him with such open and unbridled affection. It’s almost enough to make Alex yell out the words he’s been holding back, the ones he’s been saving.

“John called while you were out today,” he says instead, because it’s been on the tip of his tongue since George walked in the door, and there will never be a better time —  or a good time at all, for that matter —  to bring it up. It’s not a secret; something he’s trying to hide. Yet he hates to even go down this road with George. Doubts he holds a very high opinion of John to begin with. Not after the night Alex stumbled home at one in the morning, loose-lipped and hurting.

“Oh,” George says, voice unmistakably lower. He stops playing with Alex’s hair, pulls back his hand. “How is he?”

“I don’t really know,” Alex shrugs. “I completely forgot to tell him about us, so I think it caught him off guard.”

George’s eyebrows shoot up. In another setting, it would be almost comical. “You forgot?”

“Well, yeah. It’s not like we talk that much. But he’s in the city. He wanted to see me.”

“Maybe there’s still time,” George offers, even as he frowns. Alex can tell he’s struggling to be diplomatic. Fair. “How long is he in town?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Alex says, shaking his head. “The whole conversation was a little off, you know?”

“I don’t. What do you mean?”

“Once I brought you up, that we’re a couple…” Alex shrugs. “It was a complete 180. Like, suddenly he was completely uninterested in getting together.”

“You think he still loves you?”

“No!” Alex says, a little too loud, heart thundering in his chest at the mere suggestion. He starts to laugh, only stops when he realizes George isn't smiling. “God. No. I guess it's possible he's still, you know, into the idea of me? But it's been over twenty years. And when we...when he kissed me...it wasn't…”

Alex flounders, grasping for the right words. George's eyes are on him, patient, waiting.

“Even if we never met and this —  you and me —  never happened? John and I wouldn't have worked. We can't work anymore. Too much history. I think he knows that, too.”

“Well, you know him better than I do,” George says, visibly put out.

“Sorry,” Alex says. Then he inches closer until he’s pressed up against George's chest. He presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, tries to clear up the tension simmering between them. “This just felt like something you should know. It was nothing. But I didn't want it to come up later and then, you know, you’re wondering why I never said anything-”

“Alex,” George interrupts. “If you're not worried, I'm not worried.”

“I'm not,” Alex says. “It was just really unexpected.”

“The call or his reaction?”

Alex shrugs. “Both. We have our differences. But we’ve been through a lot together. I do want him to be happy.”

“With all due respect to John, Alex, his happiness is not your responsibility. And believe me, I know when you care for someone deeply all you want is to see them smile. But think —  what has he done for you since he's been back in the States?”

Alex doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. What _has_ John done? Kissed him, confused him. He did, unintentional as it may have been, push him toward George. They have to give him a little credit for that.

George nudges him after a moment and sighs, warm breath coasting across Alex’s cheek. “If I’m being too harsh, it’s only because I don’t know his intentions.”

“No, you’re not. I mean, it’s…”

 _Fair,_ Alex thinks as his sentence wanders off. It’s fair. If someone from George’s past —   _Benedict_ —  had called, Alex is certain he wouldn’t be pleased, either. Alex rolls over, onto his back again, grabbing George’s wrist and placing his hand over his own chest. George’s fingers dig into his shirt’s fabric, a dull but intoxicating pressure that makes Alex’s stomach twist in the best way.  

“He might just need some time to process everything,” George says. “John’s been —  where again?”

“West Africa. Burkina Faso.”

“And everything has changed,” George reminds him. “Give him some distance, maybe, but don't write him off just yet.”

“Yeah,” Alex sighs, tracing over George’s knuckles with his own finger. He doesn’t see an outcome where this works —  where John doesn’t disappear from his life again. There was always an excuse. Before Burkina Faso there was Niger, Belarus, Haiti, Honduras... Alex has lost track. A few emails, some Christmas cards and a handful of phone calls are all he has to show for the thirteen years since John disappeared. And Alex knows what he expected, what he wanted: A visit during John’s months of free time between projects. An invitation to Charleston when he was home. Even a _‘hey, if you and the missus are looking for your next big outing, I’m going to be in Jerusalem/Berlin/Cape Town/Geneva before they ship me out.’_

Just _something._   

George’s moves his hand to Alex’s hip, giving it a squeeze. “Are you all right?”

“I’m OK,” he sighs again. “Just tired.”

“Sweetheart,” George laughs. “You need to _sleep._ ”

“Yeah,” Alex says, unable to control his sudden smile. “Are you going to bed now, too?”

George looks at the clock on their bedside table. It’s not even 8:30 p.m. “I can stay until you fall asleep.”

“Please,” Alex says, and pulls him closer.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at a-schuyler.tumblr.com!
> 
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Alex wakes up to the sound of George’s voice, a soft hum in their otherwise quiet room. For a moment it feels more like the end of a pleasant dream, but as his brain slowly unscrambles George’s words he’s almost tempted to pull the blankets over his head and fall back asleep.

“...Yes, of course, that’s fine — email it over. I’ll come in late tomorrow to go over the plea bargain, so get Jay on my calendar — yes, we should be back in the city by the early afternoon — yes, 4 o’clock will work.”

It’s disorienting, at first, as he rolls off his stomach and onto his back. The curtains are still drawn over their windows, blocking out the sun, but George is fully dressed and leaning back against the headboard with a hardback book open in his lap, phone pressed to his ear. He gives Alex an apologetic smile, holding up one finger and mouthing, _‘Gilbert.’_

Alex shoots him a look and stretches his legs out, kicking back his blankets with his good foot. He tries to make out Lafayette’s muffled words on the other line, but gets nowhere.  

“Thanks for holding down the fort,” George says. “I’ll see you tomorrow — yes, all right, I’ll tell him for you. Take care.”

George sets his phone down on the bedside table and sighs. “Gilbert says ‘hi.’”

“You’re going back to the office tomorrow?” Alex says disapprovingly. “You’re going to be exhausted from the drive.”

“Unfortunately, work doesn’t wait,” George says, dog-earing the book in his lap and setting it aside, next to his phone. “And speaking of tomorrow, what time do Angelica and the kids land?”

“A little after six, I think. Remind me to double check.” He’s not ready to think about tomorrow yet. For now, they’re still _here._ Alex tugs on the deep navy fabric of George’s pants and grins up at him playfully. “You’re dressed. How long have you been up?”

“It’s almost 1 o’clock.”

“What!” Alex shouts, trying to push himself up. Instead, he’s met with a sharp pain that shoots straight through his shoulder like a zap of electricity. It didn’t hurt at all through the night so he’d almost forgotten about the bruising. But now, the sensation makes him gasp, swallowing a scream as he lowers himself back onto the mattress. George shifts next to him and a steadying hand rests over his sternum, gentle and unsure.

“Alex, you have to take it easy,” George warns — his voice is almost stern, but his eyes are sympathetic, worried. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you, but I thought you might need to sleep in. Rest. You clearly needed it.”

“But you-”

“I went out to ski early this morning,” George assures him. “Had some breakfast, did a little more shopping. It’s _fine._ You’re fine.”

“Great. So, I’ve made it to the end of the worst year of my life and I can’t even enjoy a fucking trip with the one person who’s made it better.”

It’s more of a statement than a complaint. He doesn’t have a lot of fight left in him — or much of anything, really. But he still can’t help but be a little bitter. They’ve had so many highs and lows — it would’ve been nice to just, well, have something _nice_ for once.

“Hey,” George says, rolling onto his side to face Alex. “This isn’t the last trip I’m ever going to take you on.”

“Well, don’t feel like you need to sit in here with me all day,” Alex says, well aware he’s bordering on histrionic. “I’m sure if you leave a window open for me to gaze out of, I can entertain myself.”

He smirks when he notices George is biting back a smile. And then he sees something else flicker in George’s eyes — an idea — as he inches in closer to Alex, pressing against his side. His lips brush across his temple first, featherlight, then drag down to his ear, kissing the shell.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” George breathes, hot against his face. “To stay inside?”

Alex squirms against him, feeling his body start to grow warm in an instant, blood pounding in his veins. He wants to be embarrassed by the way his body reacts to George, but it’s such a mutual passion. The room feels like it’s growing smaller and smaller and it’s hard to focus on anything but him —  not that Alex wants to.

He closes his eyes, grinning, despite himself, when he feels George press himself against his hip. Already growing hard. “I don’t think I’ll be much fun with a mangled ankle and fucked up shoulder.”

“Well, I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” George says, the hunger creeping through his voice as he meets him for a proper kiss, lips parted and warm. Alex cups his cheek and drags him closer, his heart thundering in his chest like a drum. George’s fingers curl around the hem of his shirt and he pulls back, kissing Alex’s palm where it’s still resting on his cheek. “Do you feel all right?”

“What kind of question is that?” Alex nearly laughs. “Don’t stop now.”

George undresses him slowly, overly gentle as he unfastens the walking boot, careful not to let the leg of his pants catch around his ankle. It hurts, but Alex pushes himself up and lets his shirt be lifted over his head, digging his teeth into the meat of his lip as he lifts his arms. He settles back into the mattress so George won’t have to see the worst of the bruises littering the back of his shoulder. But the way George’s eyes flicker back to his, questioning, tells Alex he already got an eyeful.

“I’ll say something if it hurts,” Alex promises, letting his thighs drop open, an invitation for George to crawl between them. One hand falls on Alex’s knee, the other drags down his inner thigh, tickling. His hips twitch up on their own accord, searching for friction as he feels his blood flow south. He closes his eyes, tries to savor the way he feels now, in this moment. So utterly consumed by the way George makes him feel; safe and whole in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.

“Alex,” George purrs, brushing his lips across Alex’s kneecap. “You’re so important to me. You know that, right?”

Alex opens his eyes, somewhat dazed by George’s words. But he smiles. “Yeah. You’re important to me, too.”

“This part…” George says, squeezing a meatier part of Alex’s hip and making him gasp. “This part has always been fun. But where we are, now? I don’t think I can tell you enough how happy I am.”

He doubts he’ll ever get tired of hearing it. “Tell me as many times as you need.”

Alex pushes his hips up to meet George’s as he covers him with his own body, careful not to let his full weight drop. The kiss is like so many they’ve shared before — hungry but gentle, passionate but familiar. It only breaks when Alex clutches the back of George’s shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it onto the other side of the bed. He grabs George’s bare shoulder, tries to drag him back down so he can taste him again. But George doesn’t move.

“The condoms?” he asks. “In your bag still?”

Alex nods and drops his head back against the feather pillows, still in a thick fog of building pleasure. His vision only clears when George starts to climb off of him.

“Wait.” He grabs hold of George’s wrist. “Don’t worry about that tonight.”

The room falls silent. George stares at him as if he’s sprouted a second head and Alex steels himself, certain he’s said something wrong. It’s not as though he would fault George for not jumping on board, he gets it. But trust has never been a concern with them. He doesn’t want his perception of what their relationship is to shift.

“I know it’s only been a few weeks,” Alex says, once it’s clear George is waiting for an explanation. He starts drawing circles into George’s wrist with his thumb. “But I had a checkup back in June, before we even met … sorry, I know it’s not really a heat-of-the-moment decision, forget it-”

“It’s just a big step,” George cuts him off, still staring at him like he’s searching for any signs of uncertainty. “You have nothing to worry about with me. I had my own appointment last week. But have you given this more than a couple seconds of thought?”

“You have, apparently. Why didn’t you say something?”

George smiles then, sheepish, almost sweet. “Like you said. It’s only been a few weeks. It felt a little fast.”

“Well, taking things slow has never really been our style, huh?”

It’s only a matter of minutes before George is easing inside of him, forehead dropped on the pillow next to Alex’s head, hands resting on the backs of Alex’s knees. There’s a satisfying burn in his thighs as they’re pushed and spread open —  it’s a welcome distraction from his ankle. George only stops once to coat himself with more lube before draping himself back over Alex, arms braced on either side of the pillow to keep the bulk of his weight lifted. The position gives Alex a face full of chest, but he supposes that’s a better alternative to crushing his shoulder.

“Jesus, Alex,” George grunts, finding his rhythm, slow and deep. He buries his nose on the top of Alex’s head, muffling a low, primal groan that sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Alex whispers into his chest, wrapping his own arms around George’s middle, grounding himself. “We can go a little harder, baby, it’s OK.”

Another little huff just above his head and George pulls out of him almost entirely. He pushes back in with such force that Alex almost feels the air leave his lungs, feels his body move an inch or two up the mattress. George adjusts, keeps going, hitting a sweet spot that makes Alex swing his head to one side, and then—

A sharp tug near his roots, where his hair is trapped under George’s forearm. He shudders under him, and it doesn’t quite hurt — but the sensation _does_ stir up something low in his stomach, makes his cock twitch.

“ _Oh_ ,” Alex sighs, so quiet he doubts George hears him over the sound of skin slapping against skin. He can’t bring himself to form words, so instead he rolls his head to the other side, feels another tug on the nape of his neck.

He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw slack — paired with the persistent snap of George’s hips, it’s _incredible_. This could be a _thing_ , he thinks, digging his fingers into George’s back, trying to chase after the feeling. But George adjusts at the same time he turns his head, and—

He feels the most excruciating pain.

“Ow! George, fuck!” His muscles tense up — what felt like heaven only seconds ago now feels unbearable. His scalp raw, on fire.

“Alex?” George tries to pull away from him in a panic but Alex’s arms, wrapped around his back, keep him in place. “What-?”

“My hair got caught under you,” Alex says, squeezing back the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “You almost ripped out my fucking hair just now.”

He almost feels bad for making such a fuss when he sees the guilt pass over George’s face.

“Are you OK? Do you want to take a breather?” One large hand finds its way into his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Alex’s eyes nearly slip shut —  that alone is enough to placate him.

He forces himself back into the moment. “I mean, before that it felt kind of good,” Alex mutters, averting his eyes. “If you want to...uh, you know. Just not so hard.”

He looks back up at George, sees that the guilt has been replaced by a curious glint in his eyes. The fingers tighten around a chunk of his hair, giving it a little tug.

“Like this?”

Alex nods, fucking himself back down on George’s cock, urging him to move again. “More.”

He snaps his hips to meet Alex, dropping his handful of hair to get a better grip and holding it in a ponytail on the crown of his head instead. Alex nods, gives him the OK, gasping with an unexpectedly thrilling mix of shock and pleasure when George yanks his head back, so far he’s staring up at the ceiling.

“Fuck me harder,” Alex groans, screwing his eyes shut, trying to lift his hips. “C’mon, I’m not going to break-”

And then he sees stars — George pushes into him deeper than Alex thought possible, then again and again, at a pace so relentless Alex can only lie back and let George have him. He’ll ache tomorrow — the shoulder, his ankle, every single muscle in his entire fucking body. George jerks Alex’s head sideways, buries his face into the stretch of bare neck, biting and kissing his way up to Alex’s ear.

“You like it?” George breathes. Another brutal thrust. “Getting pushed around, letting me use you like this?”

 _That’s_ certainly new. Alex moans his assent, unsure of what words are spilling out of his own lips as George continues to jerk and pull and fuck him. He barely notices it when George’s free hand fists around his cock, and then he’s bucking up into his grip, searching desperately for release.

Every one of his senses are under attack and it’s almost too much, but he doesn’t want George to let up, doesn’t really want it to ever stop. But a minute or two in, maybe three, he’s spilling over George’s hand, slack jawed as George fucks him through it.

“Oh - oh my God,” Alex groans, surprised he’s even able to say that much, yelping when George yanks his hair again for good measure.

And he’s only just getting started, Alex realizes. He’s slowly winding down from his orgasm when George untangles his hand from Alex’s hair, pinning one wrist over his head and dropping a kiss on the opposite, bruised shoulder.

Their entire room smells like sweat and sex. He doesn’t know how long George holds him like that, doesn’t know how long it takes George to finish fucking him. Only realizes he’s done when the crushing grip on his wrist tightens almost painfully and George is throbbing and spilling inside him. Doesn’t even realize how heavy George is until he’s rolling off of him and onto the other side of the bed, panting. Alex’s own body is abuzz, the aches and pains in his shoulder not yet settling in, his orgasm less of a wave now and more of a faint ripple.

“That,” he says, after a minute or so of silence. “That was incredible.”

George lets out a breathy laugh and turns to look at him, his forehead shining with sweat. “Are you OK? We might have gotten a little carried away.”

“I’m amazing. You’re amazing.”

George props himself up on one elbow and hovers over him, tracing a finger over the curve of his shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt?”

It does. But he doesn’t mind.

“Who cares?” Alex says, swatting George’s hand away. “I can handle it.”

 

—

 

They spend most of their last day in bed — talking, reading, eating, flipping through cable channels. Alex falls asleep early in the night and wakes up early in the morning, muscles aching and a sense of dread he can’t quite place churning in the pit of his stomach. It’s the same feeling he gets when he accidentally leaves his phone on his work desk overnight or can’t find his wallet, only amplified. It carries on late into the morning as he’s sitting on the edge of their bed, watching George pack up their things. That’s when he realizes he’s wearing it on his face, too.

“You’re quiet,” George comments once their suitcases are packed and waiting by the bedroom door. He joins Alex on the bed, kissing his cheek. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just end of vacation blues, I guess,” Alex shrugs, because he truly doesn’t know how to answer him. “This was such a nice escape. Even if it didn’t go exactly as planned.”

“Does anything ever go exactly as planned?” George smiles back, standing and offering Alex his hand. “Come on. I’ll help you out to the car.”

Alex rolls his eyes good-naturedly but grabs hold of George’s hand anyway, letting himself be pulled up. “I’m entirely capable, you know. It’s a twisted ankle. I’m not missing my leg.”

Nevertheless, he lets George guide him down the stairs and out to the car. He switches on the radio, searches for a good channel while George loads up the trunk and does a final walkthrough of their cabin. And then, it’s back on the road.

And it’s a long road. He doesn’t regret sleeping through most of it the first time around.

“I’m getting no cell service here,” Alex complains, somewhere between Hartford and New Haven, opening and closing his phone’s inbox. Nothing. “How does this happen? In the year 2016?”

“Wait until we’re closer to the city, perhaps?” George suggests, drumming his fingers along the side of the steering wheel, in time with the music. “Enjoy these last couple hours. We’re still unplugged, technically.”

It’s only been a few days, but Alex is already dreading it — going back to his own bed, having to carve out time to spend with George, no longer a moment away. He knows it’s silly to already miss something they both knew would be a fleeting moment in time, but after 20 years of having someone to come home to and wake up with, he can’t help but want to chase that feeling.

Of course, he’s thought about living with George in the most abstract sense — the only way you can think about living with someone you’ve only known for a handful of weeks. The logistics are tough. He doesn’t see a scenario where George willingly leaves his Central Park residence, and he can’t see himself uprooting Will and Angie from their childhood home. Just the thought of living at the top of the Majestic feels insane, so far removed from reality and anything he’s ever expected.

It’s nothing he feels compelled to bring up now, in this car. By now they have a history of trying to run before they can even walk, but it’s just too much. Still, there’s a sort of tension that grows between them during the last hour or so of their drive, deepening into a silence once they see the skyline. It lasts all the way back to Park Slope. George pulls up to the curb, puts the car in park.

“Don’t worry about me,” Alex says, reaching for the door handle. “I can carry my stuff.”

George shakes his head, throwing open his own door. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Alex ends up following him up the porch steps, doing his best to keep his full weight off his foot and happy to find it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected. He turns his house key once, then twice.

“Holy shit,” he says, heart leaping up into his throat. “Either I forgot to lock the door or someone picked it.”

George frowns and sets the suitcase down on the stoop, touching the small of his back, trying to calm him. “Do you want me to go in first and look around?”

“No,” Alex shakes his head, pushing the door open and stepping inside. “It’s the middle of the day, I’m sure it’s fine, it’s just-”

Alex freezes, nearly stumbling forward when George knocks into his back. Not a single one of his belongings are out of place. But Angelica is sitting on the living room floor with Will, putting together his gorilla jigsaw puzzle. And Angie, curled up on the couch, looks up from her laptop.

“Hey, you guys are home!” Alex says, even as his stomach twists and flip flops. All eyes in the room are on George, so he turns and gives him an awkward pat on his shoulder. “We were just getting back from lunch, um-”

“You needed an overnight bag to go to lunch?” Angie cuts him off, so quiet Alex barely hears her at first.

“We, uh…” Alex gestures helplessly at Angelica, who looks just as taken aback. “I thought you guys were landing around six, or else I would have-”

“What?!” Angie demands, snapping her laptop shut. “Kept _lying_ to me?”

Alex wants nothing more than to sink into the floor — or maybe run back to the car and drive back to Vermont. Both George and Angelica look too thunderstruck and genuinely afraid to defend him or even speak up. He wants to be angry with them, but he knows none of it is their fault. He’s isolated himself, spun an entire web of lies that only he can untangle.

“OK,” Alex says, taking a deep breath. “Let’s just all calm down. We can talk about this.”

George, a statue at his side, finally stirs. He takes Alex’s hand and clears his throat. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“No,” Angie chokes out, climbing off the couch, face bright red. “I don’t want to talk to either of you.”

“Ang, wait-” Alex calls after her, but she’s already halfway up the stairs, disappearing over the landing. A door slams. From the floor, Will stares up at them, anxious and subdued.

“Daddy? Why did Angie say you lied?”

“OK!” Angelica says, jumping to her feet. “This is getting out of hand. Alex, come with me. George? Sit down.”

She looks just as unnerved as Alex feels, but without her he’s certain they would be standing in the doorway all day, shellshocked and stuttering. Alex follows her to the back of the kitchen, going from numb to fuming in a matter of seconds.

“First —  what the hell happened to your foot?” she says, pointing down accusingly at his walking boot.

“What?” He glances down —  he’d almost forgotten about it entirely. “I fell down a slope. But, hey, you weren’t supposed to be here this early. Why the fuck didn’t you say something?”

“You must have read the itinerary wrong. The departing flight was in the evening,” Angelica says, shrugging. “We’ve been here for a few hours, Alex. I texted you.”

“Fuck,” Alex says, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “My service dropped in Connecticut. I didn’t see it.”

“Well,” Angelica crosses her arms, arched brows lifted. “It’s out now. What do you want to do about it?”

 

—

 

He can hear Angie crying before he even opens her bedroom door.

“Honey?” He knocks. “Ang, can I come in? It’s just me.”

The crying stops abruptly followed by a long silence that he nearly interprets as a ‘ _go away_.’ But then she pipes up, soft.

“Come in.”

He finds her sitting up in bed, face blotchy, hastily wiping at red, swollen eyes. Alex swallows down the guilt from bringing his own daughter to tears and sits on the opposite side of the bed. There are a million different things he’d like to say, but he finds himself incapable of articulating anything but an apology.

“Angie. I’m so sorry.”

“I had a feeling,” Angie says, eyes fixed on her feet. “But you’re my dad. I didn’t think you would _lie_ to me.”

“I was going to tell you after the holidays,” Alex tries to reason. But he’s never felt so disingenuous, so inherently _bad_. “You and Will. We knew it wasn’t right to keep it a secret. But with it being our first Christmas without Mom and Philip? I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Oh! I guess I didn’t get the memo that next month we’re forgetting all about Mom!”

“Angie, don’t say that. You know what I mean,” Alex says evenly, doing his best not to give her a reaction to work off of. If he’s learned anything from parenting, it’s don’t show your teenager any signs of weakness. He moves closer and rests a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs him off. “I can only apologize so much. You have to understand that I did this with your best interests in mind. I didn’t mean to mess it up so badly.”

“I called you,” Angie says, voice lifting an octave. “I called you and you said you were _home_.”

“I know, Ang, I’m — we went to Vermont for a few nights. But that’s been eating away at me, you have no idea, after that phone call I told George that we needed to-”

“It just feels like you’re trying to replace her.”

“Ang, that’s not what this is!” Alex says, resisting the urge to reach out for her again. It’s everything he feared, his nightmare scenario. Made even worse by his own stupidity. “I wish I knew how to explain this, but for adults, this stuff is just different. George was never part of the plan, OK? I didn’t choose him. But he’s been there for me more times than I can count. Even when he and I were just friends he helped me through some of the really hard parts of losing your mother. He still is — I think about her every day. And I think I know how all of this makes you feel? Because I felt guilty for a long time, like it was all happening too soon. I wondered what she would think, you know? But in the end, I can’t change the way he makes me feel.”

“So you love him?”

“Yes. Very much.” Alex can’t help but smile. It’s freeing —  to finally say it out loud, even if George isn’t the one to hear it. At the same time it feels right, almost, to tell Angie first. To let her know something he hasn’t uttered to anyone else. “And I know he loves you and Will, too.”

But Angie doesn’t return his smile.

“I always thought you liked George,” he says, playfully nudging her with his elbow in a failed attempt to lighten the mood. “You two have always gotten along.”

“Not anymore. Mom would never have done this to you.”

Even Angie looks shocked by her own words. She finally looks at him, wet, brown eyes sweeping over his face. He tries to let it roll off —  waits for an apology instead. But it doesn’t come.

“Well,” Alex says, standing, trying his best to keep a straight, stern face, though he’s certain Angie can see where she’s wounded him. “I’m going to give you some more time to think about this, because you’re hurting my feelings. And I wish you wouldn’t bring your mother up like that.”

“Or at all?”

He’s practically in tears as soon as he shuts her bedroom door. Making his way down the staircase and back into the living room, he can already feel the beginnings of a migraine settling behind his eyes. Angelica and Will are back to playing with the puzzle —  George, still in his parka and boots, is sitting behind them on the couch, looking just as ill as Alex feels.

“Hey, sweetie?” Alex says, voice thin, bending over to ruffle Will’s curls. “Why don’t you and Aunt Angelica go for a little walk around the block? Get some exercise?”

Will climbs to his feet. “When I get back can Mr. Washington play?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Alex says, pulling Will’s coat out of the closet and helping him zip it up. “He has to go to work soon.”

As soon as they’re out the door, George stands up and grabs hold of both of Alex’s arms, keeping him still and close. Alex wants to give in, let George hold him a little tighter. But it doesn’t feel right. He’s not sure he deserves it.

“I can stay if you need me here.”

“I think you should go. I mean — I just need some time to talk this through with my kids. I don’t even know how Will…” Alex squeezes his eyes shut. His head is throbbing. “Angie isn’t handling it well.”

“Can I do anything?”

Alex forces his eyes back open and shakes his head. “Now just isn’t a good time. God, George, I fucked this all up, I’m so fucking sorry. You need to go.”

“I’m not going to leave when you’re this upset-”

“Yes, you are,” Alex says, pulling away and taking a step back. “Just give me a little time, OK? I screwed this up, not you. Listen, I’ll text you and we’ll grab some lunch tomorrow. But right now this is all just a little too much.”

George doesn’t seem to want to budge so Alex pleads with him through his eyes. He doesn’t want to fight. It’s not personal. He just needs room to  _breathe._

“Of course. I understand,” George sighs, finally giving in. Alex tilts his chin up for a quick goodbye kiss, but it doesn’t do much to make him feel better. “Hey, Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I think everything’s going to be OK.”

All Alex can do is nod, even as his doubts grow deeper and deeper.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I can explain. 
> 
> I started a new job AND left the country to meet my father and sister for the very first time.
> 
> It's been a very crazy and emotional few months. But I still feel so guilty for letting this sit for so long.
> 
> Forgive me?
> 
> And find me at a-schuyler.tumblr.com. Would love to hear if anyone is.....still up for reading this.

“Is that why we spend so much time with Aunt Angelica now instead of you?”

It’s just him and Will, finally, sitting alone on the living room floor. He’s relieved, now, that he’s sent George and Angelica home — he doesn’t want an audience for this. The guilt festering deep inside him is punishment enough.

“Well.” Alex picks up one of Will’s LEGO astronauts, spinning its arm in a circle, just to keep his hands busy. “When grownups start to like each other, they have to spend some time alone. To figure out if they want to stay together. And that’s what Mr. Washington and I were trying to do, you know? We didn’t want to say anything to you or your sister until we were sure we wanted to stay together for a long time.” 

Will looks up from his spaceship. “Would he live in our house?” 

Alex shakes his head, watching the light leave Will’s eyes. “That part takes more time.” 

“But why? If you’re sure?” 

“Will, it’s just…it’s complicated, OK? But he would definitely spend more time here. With us.” Alex leans his back against the side of the couch, rubbing his tired eyes. “Hey, is that really what you think? That you’re spending more time with your aunt?” 

Will looks down, hunching his shoulders. “You didn’t even want to come to Disney with us.”

“You always take that trip with your aunt!” Alex tries to reason, but the words fall flat as he tries to recall the last time he spent an evening out or weekend alone with his kids. 

Those evenings have been few and far between. He’s had Angelica on standby, ready to step in so he could step out for Manhattan dinner dates and quick fucks in George’s apartment. Martha had told him to be selfish.  _ ‘You’ve got to give yourself something.’  _

It felt like reasonable enough advice at the time. George, after all, undoubtedly makes him happier. Makes his life better — maybe not always _easier_ , but he’s never regretted working through the difficult times. He shouldn’t have to push away someone who makes each day even just a fraction more bearable — he knows this. 

He just never spared enough thought on what it might cost him.

It’s early in the evening, but he can tell Will is exhausted from the way his eyelids droop shut and snap open as he plays. Together, they clean up his toys before heading upstairs. Alex is rummaging through Will’s dresser drawers, lost in his own thoughts and searching for clean pajamas, when he whirls back around to face his son. 

“Sweetie, I never even asked!” He’s on the verge of laughing, now. Laughing at the absurdity of the day. At the entire fucking mess he’s created. “Did you have fun on your trip?” 

Will, feet dangling off the edge of his bed, looks up and smiles. “Yeah. We didn’t get to do all of the rides, but we did all my favorites.”

“That’s good.” Alex pulls him up into a crushing hug, relieved when he feels Will wrap his arms around him, returning it. “I’m going to be better. OK? I promise.”

“You’ll do more stuff with us?” Will asks. 

Alex pulls out a fresh pair of pajamas and sets them on the bed, smoothing out a wrinkle on the collar. “Yeah. I’ll do more stuff.”

Once Will’s dressed for bed and settled, he crosses the hall to Angie’s door, raps his knuckles against the wood frame once before opening it and poking his head in.

“Ang?” he calls out hesitantly. “You haven’t had dinner-”

He cuts himself off when he sees her, fast asleep across the bed, mouth hanging open, with her blankets kicked down to her feet. He nearly crosses the room to wake her but decides against it, swallowing his words as he clicks the door shut and heads back downstairs. There’s a dull pain in his chest, like a fist clenching around his heart. Combined with the throbbing shoulder and busted ankle, the long drive, the entire afternoon...he’s shocked he hasn’t collapsed yet. 

He switches the television on and sprawls out on the couch, resting his phone across his chest and dozing off to the voice of a cable news anchor. He’s nearly asleep, the stresses of the day slowly fading away, when he feels his phone vibrate with a text. With bleary eyes, he swipes open his messages. It’s from George. 

_I’m sorry about today. Hope all is well. Where do you want to have lunch tomorrow?_  

That wakes him up. Alex doesn’t know how many times he rereads the text before he tries to type out a reply. His next steps are clear, no matter how painful they might be or how desperately he wants to wipe the past handful of hours from his memory. 

And he can’t delay this. He can’t pretend it’s not happening. 

He stares at the text for another five minutes before he replies. 

_ Can we just meet at your place? _

 

—

 

The memories from the night he decided to end it with John have faded over the years. But he remembers standing in his tiny kitchen while they prepared a dinner together. That’s when the normalcy and intimacy of it all hit him like a punch to the gut.

_ “I don’t know if I can do this,” _ he’d said, and switched off the gas stove’s burner with a trembling hand. John had looked at him with wide eyes and a startled smile. He’d known. Probably felt it in the air between them in the weeks leading up to that moment. 

_ “Come on, it’s chicken vindaloo,”  _ he’d said, waving a hand at the simmering saucepan.  _ “We make this all the time.” _

He’d seen John cry before, but never the way he cried that night. Alex had been consumed with guilt — even a fleeting surge of regret. But there was also a wave of relief when John had left, slamming the door and leaving Alex alone in a quiet apartment. It felt like he’d finally let out a breath he’d been holding for the past year.

But that was so long ago, the circumstances so different. This time, he doesn’t expect to feel so relieved. 

 

—

 

George laughs at him when he opens the front door.

“You know you don’t have to knock,” he says, letting Alex into the foyer and greeting him with a kiss pressed to the apple of his cheek. If he can sense the nerves vibrating out of Alex’s skin, he doesn’t show it. So Alex trails him slowly into the kitchen. It feels like concrete blocks are tied to his ankles.

“I was just going to put together something simple for lunch,” George says, disappearing into the pantry. “But we can do whatever you want — a pasta? Stirfry?”

Alex leans back against the countertop, taking some of the weight off his leg. It gives him a few moments of welcome relief before he feels his stomach tie itself in knots again. “Hey, George?” 

The shuffling in the pantry stops. “Yes?”

“I’m really...I’m not that hungry.” He fixes his eyes on the kitchen floor when George reappears, a can of diced tomatoes in one hand. “I actually just wanted to talk to you. About yesterday.”

George smiles, a little nervous. Sheepish. “Of course. I’m sorry, Alex, my mind has just been in a million different places since then-”

“Mine too.” Alex laughs despite himself and finally looks up to meet his eyes. The same kind, warm eyes that helped him calm down the day he thought he’d lost his son in Central Park.  “Will and I talked last night.”

“Oh?” 

“I think it’s safe to say it went a great deal better than my chat with Angie,” Alex says. He swallows down a lump forming in the back of his throat, surprised at how strong his voice is when he speaks again. “He wanted to know if you were going to come live with us.”

The corner of George’s mouth twitches up into a smile as he sets the can down on the counter, drumming his fingers along the top of it. “Well. That might be a while.”

“If it happens at all.” 

A silence falls between them. Alex lets out a long sigh, unable to hold it in any longer, and George’s shoulders slump. A distinct heaviness falls over the room. He didn’t even have to say the words, yet George knows. 

When he meets Alex’s eyes, he almost looks resigned.

“I thought this might happen. When you said you didn’t want to go out today… I just didn’t want to believe it.” George lets his weight fall back against the kitchen island. His eyes slip shut, he shakes his head. “Fuck.”

Alex takes a couple steps toward him, but stops. It’s instinct now to want to be close to George. To hold him, and be held. “You know this isn’t about you, right? You didn’t do anything wrong, George. You did nothing. But this is about my kids and what they need. And this...you and I? It’s too much for them to digest. And that’s my fault. It’s on me. Not you. Never you.”

George shakes his head again. “I pushed before you were ready…”

“No. I’ve always wanted you — God, I still do. But I got ahead of myself. I hurt my kids. That’s not something I can live with. I told myself over and over this would work and they would be OK. But I was wrong.”

“Your children are the most important part of your life, Alex. I know that,” George says with a strained, tense smile. He looks at Alex now, eyes shining and jaw set. “Making you the most important part of mine was my own mistake.”

He knows it’s unwise, even as he steps into George’s space and throws his arms around him, burying his face in his chest. He doesn’t cry — just breathes him in for a moment, eyes screwed shut. He senses George’s hesitation before he wraps his own arms around Alex, squeezing him closer. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you like this,” Alex mutters into the lapel of George’s jacket, his lips scratching against the fabric. He pulls back, looks up at him. “You know how much I l- ...how much I care about you.”

George says nothing. But he’s so close Alex can feel his breath ghosting across his cheek with each exhale. So he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet, ignoring the pain in his ankle and pressing a chaste, clean kiss to the corner of George’s mouth. He turns his head to one side, deepening it. It’s stupid. So very  _ stupid _ , yet his body is on autopilot. It won’t matter in the end — how badly Alex wants him. Not when he can’t stay, or follow through on any of the plans they made-

“Alex.”

George steps to the side, leaving Alex standing alone in the middle of the kitchen. Alex leans heavily against the island, defeated, taking the weight off his foot with a shaky sigh. George’s face, stoic and unflinching until now, falls.

“Alex, your ankle-" 

“I’m fine.”

“Sit down? Please?”

Alex shakes his head, staring down at the floor tiling. “I should go back to work.”

“Listen,” George says, an almost undetectable quiver in his voice. “If we’re really going to do this, if this is what you want-”

“This isn’t what I want! Have you even been listening to me?”

George runs his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips. “We don’t have to fight. But if this is over, Alex? I need it to be over. I won’t play in that gray area again. I can’t do that with you.”

“I know,” Alex says, blinking back a sudden rush of emotion. He won’t allow himself to cry. Not in front of George. “I don’t want that, either. I just don’t know where we go from here.”

George shrugs. “I’ll need a little time, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I’ll text you.” George shifts his weight from foot to foot, restless. “Let me walk you down to the front desk-”

Alex waves away the offer. “You don’t have to do that. I can see myself out.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Can’t even bear to look into George’s eyes again before he turns away, walking out of the kitchen and toward the front door as fast as his injured foot allows.  

 

—

 

The taxi ride back to Bryant Park goes by in a blur. It was the right thing to do — the responsible, unselfish thing to do. He knows this.  

But he doesn’t feel like anything has changed. Doesn’t feel any sense of relief, or that he’s a better father because of it. Mostly, he just feels numb as he obsessively checks his phone. He wanted more anger from George — not the sort of graceful acceptance he received instead. In a weird, twisted way, he wants George to hate him. To want nothing to do with him, to shut him out. After all, being hated would make this so much easier. 

Angelica’s perched in the chair by Burr’s desk, scribbling something in a notebook on her lap, when Alex finally makes his way into their office. 

“If you try the chief, I’ll work on getting Detective O’Connell on the line.” She waves her fingers in Alex’s direction as a greeting, not looking up from her work. “And we can compare notes from there. Sound good?”

Alex’s tunes out the rest of their conversation and falls into his chair, boneless, letting his messenger bag hit the floor with a loud thud. The other side of the cubicle wall goes silent and, after a few heavy seconds, Angelica wheels her chair backwards to look at him, eyes narrowing.

“Short lunch. Did you get stood up?”

He can’t find the energy to do much aside from stare back at her. But something in his eyes must give it away. Angelica’s shoulders stiffen, he sees the grip on her pen tighten. 

“Hey, Burr,” she says, not taking her eyes off Alex. “Can you give us a minute?”

Burr scoffs on the other side of the wall. “Are you serious? This is my office, too.” 

“I  _ said _ ,” Angelica says, firmer, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Give us  _ a minute. _ ”

“Wow, OK.” Burr clicks his laptop shut and grabs his coffee thermos, heading for the door. “I’m on deadline, but that’s fine. Kindly grab me from the break room when you’ve finished up your chat.”

Angelica waits until the door clicks shut behind him, then pounces.  

“Alex.”

“I had to, Ang. What was I supposed to do? Let my daughter be miserable? Let her hate me?”

“Angie is fourteen,” Angelica reminds him. “She feels everything at a ten. You could’ve at the very least let me talk to her before you ran off to break up with George.”

“I did what I thought was right,” Alex says. “This doesn’t make me feel particularly great either, you know.”

The deep lines in Angelica’s forehead disappear as her face softens. “I know. But you have to slow down every now and then and  _ think _ .”

“I was thinking about Angie and Will.” 

“She could still come around, you know,” Angelica says, her voice now bordering on desperation. “Even if you had done everything perfectly, she still would’ve needed time to adjust. 

Alex laughs finally — it startles him as much as it startles Angelica, judging by the way her chin snaps up. “And what would I tell George? ‘Hey, if you could just put your love life on hold in the event my daughter warms up to you, that’d be great’?”

“I don’t know,” Angelica admits, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and it’s the same look I saw on my sister’s face a million times.”

Alex finally lets the tears fall, silent and hot down his cheeks. Without a word, Angelica plucks a handful of tissues from the box on her desk and stuffs them in Alex’s fist. 

“Take the afternoon off,” she says. “If Paine throws a fit, I’ll cover for you.”

Alex nods, wiping one of the tissues across his nose and climbing to his feet. “Thank you.”

He’s almost out the door when Angelica grabs his elbow as an afterthought, spinning him back around, her own face a little flushed. 

“Hey.” She cups his cheeks in her hands. “I love you. And even if you do some really stupid shit sometimes, I’m always in your corner. OK?” 

“Got it.” Alex gives her a weak smile. “And I love you, too.”

He’s barely made it past the front desk of his building when his phone vibrates in his back pocket, next to the wad of used tissues. He half expects it to be Angelica, telling him he forgot something on his desk, or maybe even George…

The caller ID reads back  _ Martha Custis _ . Alex cringes and opens his messages, knowing she can’t have anything kind or good to say to him.

_ Alexander, I need to talk to you. ASAP.  _


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a-schuyler on tumblr - chat with me there!

Will stares down at his slice of pizza, but his elbows remain propped up on the table. He doesn’t make a move to pick it up.

“So,” he says, face contorting in confusion. “We don’t get to see Mr. Washington anymore? Last night you said he would spend more time with us.”

“That was only if we were going to stay together, sweetie,” Alex says with forced cheeriness as he dumps more salad onto Will’s plate, then Angie’s. “We decided that now isn’t a good time.”

Will’s frown only deepens at that. “But why?”

Alex sighs and sips down the rest of his ice water, eyes darting around the pizzeria for their waiter. He might need something a little stronger to get through the rest of the evening. Angie, across from him at the table, doesn’t look up. Just peels the green peppers off her pizza and stacks them in a pile at the side of her plate.

“Because…” Alex shrugs, searching for the right words. “It was the right thing to do. I mean, look! When’s the last time we went out for dinner? Just the three of us?”

Will looks back down at his pizza, unimpressed. “It’s because Angie got mad.”

Angie’s head jerks up at the sound of her name and her eyes narrow, ready to fight. But Alex cuts in.

“I don’t think we need to blame anyone for what happened, OK?” he tries to reason, placating Angie. “We get to come back together as a family now. That’s what we should be focusing on. Getting back to the way things were.”

Even as he says the words he feels them fall flat. Angie gives him a funny little look, her lips curling into a thoughtful frown. He knows what they’re both thinking — that neither of them want anything that resembles the way things were before. When Alex struggled to find reasons to climb out of bed in the morning, when most of their dinners were delivered by Seamless while the fridge remained empty. 

But things have changed since then, and George doesn’t deserve all the credit. He played a role — a significant one — but it was Alex who had to find the strength within himself in the first place. 

He’s confident he can do it again.

 

—

 

The night feels empty and lonely without his usual goodnight texts from George. He does his best to push it out of his mind as he changes the sheets on his bed, balls up the dirty pillowcases and tosses them into the hamper in the corner. 

Each night and day will be easier than the one before, he tells himself. He tries not to think too much about the future — what it might be like if they remain friends, or how it will feel if...no,  _ when _ George moves on to someone else. George was only his for a handful of weeks. Alex has no claim on him. But their time together feels so sacred — anything would feel like a betrayal. 

He grabs his phone off the dresser before he climbs under the sheets, unlocking the screen. Alex’s heart flutters a bit when he sees the little red circle on his messenger app. One unread message. He taps it with his thumb, squeezing the phone with his hands.

It’s just a second message from Martha, underneath the one he ignored earlier in the afternoon. He feels himself deflate with a blend of relief and disappointment. What would he even say, if George texted him now?

_ [9:52 p.m.] Are you avoiding me? _

Two more messages come in, bumping the others further up the screen.

_ [9:52pm] If you don’t answer me by morning, I’ll call you. _

_ [9:53pm] Or show up at your office. Whichever you prefer. _

He bites down on the inside of his cheek and sighs, tapping out a reply. 

_ I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. When and where do you want to meet up? _

 

—

 

Angelica’s old townhouse is just two blocks away from Martha’s in Lenox Hill, so he walks by it for old times’ sake. It’s not much from the outside — the white brick exterior blends in with the rest of the surrounding buildings. He’d gone to so many of Angelica’s famous dinner parties here. Dropped off the kids more times than he could ever count before whisking Eliza away for a date night. 

The townhouse is almost like a monument for their past lives. Angelica never did quite get around to turning her Park Slope residence into much of a home. Between losing her sister and turning down the opportunity in London, he supposes it’s been the last thing on her mind. 

He lingers outside the front stoop for a little longer than necessary before a skinny blonde woman, two English bulldogs in tow and a phone cradled against her ear, throws open the door. Eyes narrowing when she spots him. Alex responds with a tight smile and a quick wave before heading back down the sidewalk, double checking Martha’s address in his messages.

“Tea? Coffee?” Martha offers when he steps into the foyer, standing on her tiptoes to help Alex take off his winter coat. She’s wrapped in a floral dressing gown, no makeup on, dark circles under her eyes.

“Coffee, thanks,” Alex says, following her into the living room and making himself comfortable on the couch when she gestures for him to sit. Her place is cozy, lived in. Filled with furnishings he imagines are from antique or high-end consignment shops. It’s nice. “Sorry — did I wake you up?”

Martha shakes her head when she returns from the kitchen, joining him on the couch and setting their mugs on two coasters. “No, of course not. George came over and we had a bit of a late night. Poured some wine, had a little chat.”

Alex freezes. “Is he still here?”

“No, honey,” Martha laughs. “This isn’t an intervention.”

He relaxes, slumping back down against the plush cushions. “Is he…” Alex swallows around the lump in his throat. “Is he OK?”

“Yeah,” Martha says, gentle. She rests a hand on his leg, her long fingers curling around his kneecap and squeezing. “All things considered, he’s doing just fine.”

“Why did you invite me here?” Alex asks, cringing when he hears his own voice noticeably crack with emotion. “To try and change my mind? I can’t take back what happened. And no one but me has even considered that maybe this is for the best. I mean, even if Angie changed her mind and George and I tried —  _ really _ tried — things wouldn’t be the same between us. Being around the kids for a few hours a couple times a week is one thing. He told me he was ready, but how do you really know if you’re ready? Like,  _ really really _ ready-”

“Alex,” Martha cuts him off. “You’re always coming back to this. George gets that the kids come with you. It’s a package deal. Trust me, a few years ago, if George had his way, he and Benedict Arnold would’ve been married with five kids by now.”

“Wait…” Alex says slowly, a light bulb going off in his head. How did he not put two and two together? “Benedict  _ Arnold _ ? The London correspondent?”

“Yes. George never told you?”

“He told me about _ Benedict  _ who was always in  _ London _ for work but, yeah, he failed to mention some of the specifics. Like that he was dating a television personality for seven years.”

He sees Martha trying not to smile. “Broadcast journalist, technically.”

  
“I don’t think anyone watches him for the news,” Alex huffs. The appeal isn’t lost on him — he’s a captivating guy to watch. Tall and blue-eyed and fit and so unlike Alex that it would be almost humorous if it didn’t make him suddenly feel so insecure. 

Martha shrugs. “My point is, had Benedict not entirely sabotaged their relationship and run off with someone else, I do think George would’ve worn him down eventually and tried the whole marriage and children thing. They had some good times, but trust me, those good times were few and far between. George was so desperate, he was starting to reach his fifties…”

“I’m not sure what the takeaway is from this, Martha,” Alex says. “Be George’s last-ditch effort to have a family?”

“Of course not,” she says briskly. “What I’m saying is, if George was putting that much effort into a failing relationship, with someone he didn’t even love by the end...I believe he would do anything for you. You’d say jump, and he’d ask how high. You would never have to worry about him tiring of you, or of being a stepfather.”

_ Stepfather.  _ Alex turns the word over in his mind a few times before pushing it aside. It’s too much. Too real. “It doesn’t even matter now. What happened, happened. And regardless of how I feel, my kids come first.” Alex shrugs. “Besides, after yesterday, I doubt he wants anything to do with me.”

Martha rolls her eyes good-naturedly and starts to respond before seemingly changing her mind, retreating. “You know, Alex, I didn’t ask you to come visit so we could sit around all morning talk about George.”

Alex barks out a laugh. He doesn’t believe that for a second. “Oh, really?””

“Really,” Martha says, chuckling. “You did that on your own.”

“What did you invite me over for, then?”

“People like us should stick together,” Martha says. “Even if you and George can’t work things out, you should know I have your back. I had to go through so much of the aftermath of Daniel’s death alone. So I want you to feel like you have someone who understands. I’m not going anywhere.”

“So, what?” Alex asks. “We’re friends? Like, real friends?”

“Real friends,” Martha confirms, winking playfully. “Whether George likes it or not. I don’t choose sides.”

“That’s...thank you,” Alex says, and he means it. He shoots her a wry smile. “Though I don’t know if I should be taking your advice anymore.”

Martha’s own smile fades. “I’m sorry about your kids,” she says, earnest. “I’m sorry that you weren’t able to tell them on your own time.”

Alex shrugs, picking up his lukewarm mug of coffee. “Yeah. Me too."  
  
  



End file.
